Forest of Death: The 54th Hunger Games
by TranscendentElvenRanger
Summary: The Games are deadly, that is always certain, and every Gamemaker tries to outdo the last. Savanna Heron, however, has a unique approach. These Games will be in a forest, on an island ringed with water. The Arena will be beautiful, a fairytale of alternating mist and sunshine. But beauty can be deadly. Who will survive this forest of death? SYOT CLOSED. Enjoy the ride.
1. Power and Games - Prologue

**Welcome to this SYOT!**

* * *

 _ **Forest of Death: The 54th Hunger Games**_

 _ **Prologue**_

* * *

Head Gamemaker Savanna Heron smiled to herself as she stood in the office, waiting for the president's aide to summon her. She was confident that her Games would be right up his alley.

The President was a man of refined tastes. His hair, prematurely whitened as the Snow that was his name, was always immaculately brushed, his beard trimmed to perfection. Avoxes, their uniforms crisp and eyes properly downcast, awaited his every move. The President was not averse to luxury he simply saw sophistication in small natural things, like the elegance a polished curve could give to the leg of a chair, and the patterns of light and dark as they filtered through trees in a painting.

Or the delicate curl of green leaves against the virgin white of a freshly plucked rose.

Savanna's Games were going to be very natural. He would like them. In fact, he would love them like he did his roses.

The president wore roses everywhere, and it was the overwhelming scent of them that alerted Savanna to the door opening. She would not have noticed otherwise, as the tread of Snow's Avoxes was light, and his door hinges seamlessly oiled. As it was, the scent of roses struck her nostrils as the door swung open, and President Snow's aide, Egeria, stepped out.

Savanna stood, dusting off her red slacks, and pursing her bright ruby lips nervously. The fiery-looking gems inlaid along the gold tattooing that framed her face flashed as she came up, broadcasting an aura of power and command.

"The President will see you now," Egeria said.

Savanna smiled and walked through the doorway, her footsteps noiseless on the thick rose-colored carpeting.

The President turned in his chair, smiling a smile that never reached his eyes. Everything about this man was silent and cold, in a way no amount of luxury or heady rose perfume could cover. A vague shiver of unease ran over her but she ignored it. She was head Gamemaker for more than just her creativity or ruthless brilliance. She knew how to play the game.

"Ms. Heron," the President said, voice smooth. He always talked like nothing interested him, and that was what made him so...unpredictable. He was as skilled as she, Savanna knew, in his playing.

"How delightful of you to have come to me. You wish to discuss this year's...extravaganza, I presume."

The way he hesitated on the word 'extravaganza' gave Savanna a clue. He wanted these Games to be grand, and yet the whole affair was rather tiresome to him. At least that was what he wanted her to think, and she'd play along. "Quite right," she said. "We have the arena prepared, and I thought perhaps you would enjoy a few hints, a sort of preview if you will to this year's..." she paused dramatically, "Hunger Games." Then she smiled. "Or, might I say, extravaganza."

"Ms. Heron," the President said, leaning forward, "you know I like them to be a surprise to me, as they are to the tributes." He saw the brief flash of uncertainty - or was it fear - in his gamemaker's eyes. It satisfied him. He liked to play with people. It was all a part of the game. "Then again," he amended, leaning forward expectantly, "I love special previews. Go ahead, Ms. Heron. Intrigue me."

"I believe I can do that, sir," Savanna said, smiling more confidently as the frisson of fear she had felt faded, leaving her awake and excited. "You want your games exciting. You want them lengthy. You want them visually pleasing. And most of all, you want the populace entertained. There is a science to all of this, and I believe I have found a formula my unfortunate predecessors overlooked."

The President nodded, but inside he was not impressed. This he knew already. Every Gamemaker, every Games, thought itself somehow special. Yes, they were all unique, but so is a barfing unicorn. Unique things weren't always pleasant. He wondered if maybe she was thinking of introducing carnivorous butterfly mutts in an arena built to be his own mansion. That would be awful. It would just be a sparkly bloodbath of cartoony violence. Gamemakers always wanted mutts, indoor arenas, and extravagant colors, but that wasn't what Snow wanted.

Snow wanted pain.

Mutts killed too quickly, indoor games were to comfortable, too familiar to the cushy capitolians. Snow believed that man was the most vicious thing on earth, and that the most vicious environments were already part of nature. That's why he'd had to threaten a lot of his Gamemakers just to get himself a natural arena, and they never did it right. The Games were often too predictable. Choreographed, almost.

Snow wanted the districts punished. He wanted them to be in an agony of suspense, unable to do anything but sit and watch and pretend to enjoy it as kids tore each other apart.

Yes, Snow wanted pain.

Tolerantly, he waited for the ridiculously energetic, made-up woman before him to continue. He was already trying to think of suitable threats to get her to _not_ make the arena a giant cake or something equally ridiculous, when she surprised him.

"The Games are always too overdone, too forced, and too predictable," she said. "The arenas are usually beautiful woodland environments, which I believe is best, but no one ever just lets the tributes fight it out. They always hurl mutts at them. Where is the drama in that? It is much more entertaining to watch a tribute slowly change as they gasp for survival, or the helpless terror they feel when it is an intelligent man and not beast pursuing them. These Games will be those Games. I propose to launch the tributes into an environment that is 100% natural, but will tax everything they know. They will have to fight for their lives the entire time, and they'll be fighting each other. This forest will provide innumerable hiding spots - don't you just love those shots of injured tributes cowering directly beside the trail as the career pack walks past three feet away? I'm going to make the victor _work_ to live. I'm going to make the others have just enough hope to fight death until they physically die. There will be no giving up. Those that give up will be found by those that fight, and we know what will happen to them. These Games, sir, will be real. Will be visceral. Will be _exciting._ There you have it."

She leaned back, flushed with excitement and eyes alight with passion for her work.

"You mean there will be no mutts?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she said. "A few is fine. I'm just not going to inundate the arena with them. There will be a few, to drive the tributes together and such as the game progresses, just they will be well thought out and not too extravagant. The focus of these games will be the tribute rivalries, the tension of alliances, the struggling to survive. I'm going to make you more than root for them. I'm going to make you feel for them."

President Snow raised his eyebrows approvingly.

"Thank you Ms. Heron. I'm holding my breath for the Reapings. I want to see these fortunate young ones," he said as she rose to leave. Once her back was turned he nodded to himself. _That_ was what he wanted. Perhaps they would actually have her again next year, he thought. It had been a while since a Gamemaker had, well, _survived_ to do a second games.

First, he would see and judge this forest of death she so vividly described.


	2. Young and Tragic - Tribute List

**Official Tributes**

District One Female-Atalanta Bliss, 18-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Lord Zagreus

District One Male-Caspar Ophir, 18-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Josephm611

District Two Female-Eleanor "Ellie" Bradford, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Romero63

District Two Male-Mercury Medall, 18-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-ChocolateChipHomicide

District Three Female-Wilhelmina "Willi" Dye, 12-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-xGred-Forgex

District Three Male-Daniel "Danny" "Dan" Sparks, 16-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-AKLNxStories

District Four Female-Cyma Dolore, 18-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Crystals of Ice

District Four Male-Enzo Garrix, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-OhParadise

District Five Female-Zita Moreno, 15-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-LadyCordeliaStuart

District Five Male-Wyatt Foster, 16-SUBMISSIOINS CLOSED-xGred-Forgex

District Six Female-Venna Wilcox, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-svcsf

District Six Male-Hunter Robinson, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Nuna4ever

District Seven Female-Emmett McLean, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Fifidear

District Seven Male-Phoenix Hemlock, 18-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Lord Zagreus

District Eight Female-Rose "Pixie" Castellano, 15-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-zoesimpson12

District Eight Male-Cotton Ombre, 12-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Lord Zagreus

District Nine Female-Cristina Booker, 18-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Snowstorm13

District Nine Male-Leon Rayner, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Wandering Princess

District Ten Female-Ricotta Erripe, 16-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-2xTheSpeedOfLife

District Ten Male-Byron Calvert, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Josephm611

District Eleven Female-Capri Kane, 14-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-xGred-Forgex

District Eleven Male-Shahid Howe, 13-SUBMISSIOINS CLOSED-Fizzical

District Twelve Female-Alabaster Parker, 17-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Wandering Princess

District Twelve Male-Liam Cox, 14-SUBMISSIONS CLOSED-Snowstorm13


	3. Bold and Cocky - District 1

**District 1 Reaping**

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

The District is so quiet today that it takes me several seconds to realize that I'm actually awake now, no longer caught in a blissful dreamworld. The sheets underneath me are slightly rough against my skin, contrasting sharply with the silk blanket draped over my body. I got it for my eighteenth birthday, and it is the softest thing I've ever touched.

Sighing, I slide the coverlet back and step onto the smooth floor. It is polished by the many generations of feet that have rubbed it smooth; my family has owned this house since before the rebellion. It is much barer now than it was then, the paintings and silk curtains that used to adorn the walls gone. It has been many years since they disappeared, sold by my parents to fuel their all consuming obsession with the games.

The Hunger Games.

For which I will be volunteering today.

The thought really doesn't scare me, and an electric thrill runs through my body, a thrill that does not come from the chill of the slightly under-heated tiles beneath my feet, yet another sign of our poverty. Both my parents wanted to volunteer when they were young, but none of them had the drive to do the work necessary to get in, and their efforts were not looked on favorably by our district trainers. Both tried to volunteer anyway, but naturally they were beaten to the stage by more…skilled…candidates. In fact, Versace Theron, the woman who beat my mother to the stage, won her games and will be mentoring me.

Unfortunately, that drive is still lacking in my parents, and never ceases to annoy me. The only thing they are determined will happen is this: I, Atalanta Honor Gloriana Bliss, will win the Hunger Games.

Actually there's one other thing they have drive for, no, _had._

That my brother Paion was going to win the Games. He almost did, too, until the cocky idiot went looking for Jade, the girl from Two, and forgot to pay any attention to anyone around him. Then the little vixen from Eight, Fiber I think her name was, chucked a tomahawk at him. She missed, but he gave her time for another cast that practically cut off his arm. He lost it, and ran headlong off a cliff.

Wounded by a twelve year old, ran off a cliff. Impressive. Whatever happens there is no way I'd die that stupidly. At least I'd go out with flair! A magnificent duel, overwhelmed by sheer numbers! That's more like it. Honor and glory is my middle name, literally.

Well, they're the middle name my parents gave me, I think, as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and run my hairbrush down my straight black hair one final time. Sometimes I wish that I didn't have all this pressure. I'd love to win the Games, and I suppose I would volunteer anyway, but I wish they didn't have to be so set on controlling my destiny.

That's why I dyed a purple streak in my hair, I reminisce. For a little touch of rebellion.

I run my fingers down the bold line it makes in the curtain of black silk that falls round my shoulders.

The color of kings.

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

I climb down the solid alder-wood stairs into the kitchen\dining room. The bedrooms and living spaces are upstairs, with the exception of our dining area which is down stairs on the same level as our family 'business'.

Every time I think about it I crack a smile. See, it isn't a business at all, more of a counterfeiting den. Living in District 1, luxury is everywhere, so a luxury shop isn't at all out of place. Therefore, no one is suspicious of ours, but ours is different. We sell iron veneered in gold, brooches studded with glass, 'vintage' china dolls sewn by my mother, polyester silks and satins, and other such trinkets. It pays quite well, especially since we charge full price.

My smile turns into a snicker as I open the door into the kitchen and step inside. My mother stands behind the stove and her eyes flinch as the door opens, even though she doesn't move. She probably thought I was my father. He doesn't hurt her, but a few nights ago I heard her tell him that she didn't feel right about our work.

Thankfully, my dad got her right back on track, with the saying he's taught me from a cradle: It's only right if it's right for us. He reminded her how much it had helped them in raising 'the boys', meaning me and my brother Cartier. Since then, she's looked a little crosswise at dad, but I think she's getting over it.

Honestly, I can't see why she cares so much, and I wish she didn't because her attitude rubbed off on Cartier, my brother, and now he's out in the world working honest. Won't have anything to do with us. In fact, I think he would've turned us in, except that he was involved before he moved away and if he turns us in he'll go to jail too. He's got a wife and a baby so I guess he doesn't want to leave them.

Personally, I dig the whole job. I love it, and it's got so many benefits. I run my hand down the smooth twill weave of my best pants, and the silken softness of my shirt. _They're_ both the real deal, and I wear 'em when I'm working in the shop, going door to door, or for special occasions like the Reaping.

I've been so excited for that. I'm top of my class at the academy, and with my stunning good looks what could go wrong? There's only one ending: I come home to a life of ease, glory, money, and thrill. It'll be even more thrilling then conning people and dodging the occasional peacekeeper that isn't an investor. Most of them we already have bought off, but there's the occasional snoop, the new guy that still doesn't have his priorities straight. Money is always first, my dad likes to say.

I sit down at the table and mom hands me a plate of steaming hot, golden pancakes. I inhale the fragrance before drowning it out in the more exciting smells of maple syrup and butter. The hotcakes are practically floating when my dad steps in and puts a big hand over mine, tilting the jug upright and stopping the stream of gooey goodness.

"Enough, Caspar," he says. "That's expensive you know, and money's always first. Then family of course," he adds, pulling my mother over to him and kissing her.

She cracks a smile. My dad can wrangle women better than a Distirct 10 mutton-buster, and reel them in as gently as any fishermen in Four. It's a talent I've inherited, and though there isn't any special one in particular I have plenty of admirers.

"Of course, dad, whatever you say," I concede, with a sarcastic eye-roll, plopping down the jug and proceeding to eat, or more drink, my pancakes.

"There, that's the son that pick's pockets! Truly his father's son!" My father glances at my mother for confirmation.

"Caspar's a wonderful help," she agrees, scruples of the week before seemingly laid to rest.

"And he's going to help more," my father says, smiling. "Aren't you boy? Going to get your mamma a house in the Victor's Village."

"Yes sir," I say sarcastically.

My father belly laughs. "Of course you will," he says, spraying crumbs in his mirth. "How could you not?"

My mother tousles my hair, an annoying gesture that I loved when I was six, but now just tends to mess up my hair. That's what it does now, and in faint annoyance I push upright again the carefully gelled, platinum-blonde spikes I brought to life this morning.

We laugh and joke all throughout breakfast, and before I know it I'm pulling on my gray blazer that matches my pants and heading out the door. My father's gold ring that I'll be using for a token is already securely on my finger, and the last thing I hear as I head out the door is my father's shout.

"We'll see you in the Justice Building in an hour, do us proud, boy!"

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

My long black skirt swishes against my legs as I step out the door. As soon as it shuts behind me, I heave a sigh of relief. As soon as I finished dressing I'd come down for breakfast and closed my ears and mumbled as my parents gushed pointless instructions. Versace won, not my mom, and she's the one I'm going to trust for strategy.

I'm halfway to the square when I realize I left my token, a small medallion bearing my family crest, on the dresser. Just as well, I think. It had no significance to me anyway, and considering it was Paion's would probably just jinx me. Still thinking such gloomy thoughts, I swing around the corner and nearly collide with my best friend Ella. She's just barely behind me in our tactics class in training, and honestly I think her archery skills are better than I am with spears, but she's only seventeen so they didn't ask her to volunteer this year.

"Ella," I say, shooting my fist in the air. It's our little salute, and she returns it enthusiastically.

"You ready?" she calls. "You pumped?"

"Sure thing," I say, her enthusiasm contagious. Only then do I recognize the figure behind her.

"Norcin!" I call, spreading my arms. My boyfriend comes straight for them and we hug like drunks, in fact we are drunk on adrenaline and excitement. This is the biggest day of my life.

We hold hands, me in the middle with Ella holding my other. Norcin and I have always tried to avoid making her feel third-wheel, and it seems to have worked so far. We walk like that the rest of the way to the square, and I barely notice the prick of the needle as I sign in and follow Norcin and Ella into the square. Norcin is eighteen, so it's his last year to volunteer, but the truth is he's just not that good with hand-eye coordination, even though he's strong and quick.

Also, the trainers try not to break up romances by sending a couple into the arena. They get sponsors, but of course one of them dies, so it just isn't done. My district partner will be Caspar Ophir. He's kind of seedy, and I'm convinced he stole a bracelet off me once, but it couldn't be proved. He's also the most annoying person on the face of the earth. Honestly, I'd love to take him out in the bloodbath, but that really wouldn't be acceptable so I'll just have to put up with him until the final eight; then we'll get to play.

I'm snapped out of my plottings as Norcin plants a kiss on my cheek and leaves for the eighteen year old boy's section. Ella leaves to join the seventeen year olds a few minutes later, and I find my self standing with the eighteen year olds. Several of the girls whisper as I go past, and I catch several unfriendly words. They're jealous.

The video presentation that I've seen seventeen times before plays, just as uplifting as always, though it gets a bit more boring every year. I'm glad the Capitol takes seriously the misdeeds of the outer districts. They're beasts, all of them, especially Eight. I mean, what kind of weaving district teaches twelve year olds to dismember people with tomahawks? they'll be the first district I look for in the bloodbath.

The video ends, and Thisbe Fluttershy, our escort, steps up to the podium. "People of District 1," she says, "you have a history of victors as illustrious as the diamonds you create. Who will be the next gem in this glorious crown? Perhaps one of the two courageous young people selected today. I know I'm dying to meet them, aren't you?"

The crowd cheers, and I smile smugly at the girl to my left, who shoots me a venomous look. Sometimes annoying people is just so fun, I think, turning back to the stage as Thisbe's gorgeously manicured nails hover above the Reaping Bowl. The crowd falls silent, even though everyone knows that there will be a volunteer and the Reaping is just a formality. She lifts a delicate slip from the bowl, and unfolds it.

"Fantasia Perk," she reads.

The girl beside me starts toward the stage. Sitting on the stage among our long line of victors, Versace give me the tiniest of nods. I stride imperiously forward, my hand rising in a fist. "I volunteer," I call, "I volunteer as Victor."

A laugh runs through the crowd at my word choice. Fantasia shoots one last bitter glare my way and melts back into the crowd. "Sorry you weren't good enough, honey," I chirp at her as I mount the stairs. Everyone laughs again.

"Well," Thisbe gushes, her long silver hair fanning out behind her as she turns, "we have quite the cocky spitfire with us today, haven't we?"

"Absolutely," I say into the microphone. "Is that a problem?"

"No of course not," Thisbe trills, "we love an attitude!"

"Good," I say, "it's always good if the districts get along with their next victor."

"I agree one-hundred-percent," Thisbe says firmly. "I can't wait to see more of you at the interview but I'm afraid it's time for me to break off this conversation and select our boy tribute,"

"Of course," I say, stepping aside with a flourish and directing her back to the microphone.

"Feisty, but with a heart of gold!" Thisbe proclaims into the microphone, "Panem! I give you Atalanta Bliss, District 1 Female Tribute!"

Applause breaks out, and no one stops to wonder how she knew my name. I certainly never told her. Probably Versace briefed her on who would be volunteering.

I give what I think is a confidently sexy wave to the crowd before stepping into the background so Thisbe can continue the Reaping. I can see that horrible Caspar over in the boys section, a smirk on his face, and rage boils up inside me, but then I see Norcin a few rows behind him, who gives me a subtle thumbs up.

This is going quite well.

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

I watch as Thisbe moves to the boy's bowl, glad that that horrible Atalanta has shut up already. She's just about the most aggravating girl I could have for a District partner, and I can't help but wait for the Games to begin and get to the breaking of the career alliance as fast as possible. I don't care if she's my district partner, if I put on a good enough show they'll forget they even knew the victim. Daggers are my weapon, they're small and easy to conceal, but fast and deadly. When balanced right, they can even become a long range weapon by throwing, and I know how to do all those things.

Yes, Atalanta's turn will be slow and painful.

"—s Mantir," Thisbe finishes, apparently reading off the name. A fourteen year old toward the back of the crowd begins to move slowly forward, already looking back and forth to see who'll volunteer.

"I volunteer as tribute," I declare, stepping briskly up and onto the podium.

"Well well," Thisbe chortles, "what a _handsome_ young man! And what is your name, my dear Prince Charming?"

"Caspar Ophir," I announce strongly, still imagining the arousing thrill of killing my ally.

"Well, what specimens we have this year!" she announces, looking back at us.

We know what to do, and I step forward and shake hands with Atalanta. I twist my hand just right so that my ring pinches her hand as we shake, but she shows no sign that it hurts her, still playing it for the crowd. Her eyes, however, are trained on mine. They are grey-green and flecked with brown, but they are still dark pools of hatred. A thrill runs through me.

She knows.

She knows what I'm thinking about. And she wants to kill me too. this is going to be more fun then I thought. As our escort cries out our names for all of Panem, her eyes remain trained levelly on mine, calculating.

That stare sticks in my brain all the while that I sit in the Justice Building, joking with my family about what they're going to do without their best guy. By the time the peacekeepers take me to board the train, I have a plan.

I have to make her think she was wrong about me. I have to make her not just think it, I have to prove it.

I'm going to have to hit on her.

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

I drape myself across the luxuriant leather chair inside the justice building, and wait for my friends to say goodbye. A chandelier sparkles on the ceiling, refracting specks of light onto the crisp white walls. The door to the room is mahogany, with an elaborate wrought-iron doorknob. The beauty of the room betrays the fact that it is really a prison. If I didn't want to be here, that locked door would be the prison bar that kept me from life, and sent me toward death.

I shiver a little. For all my bravado on stage, it would be a lie to say I am not afraid. I am. I don't want to die like Paion, far away from my friends, home, and, I have to face it, I'd even miss my air-headed family.

And Norcin.

We've never gotten serious, but we haven't set boundaries either, and I think our relationship could one day become a marriage. I haven't thought about it much, especially since I knew my parents would never let me until I volunteered and came back a winner. I don't love the Games, not the way my family does, though they are entertaining.

I hear the doorknob begin to turn and put my sweaty palms on my knees, bracing them against the ruffles of my skirt. The ruffles quiver like an agitated sea, and I realize that I'm shaking. Small rooms have always made me claustrophobic, and now…I don't want to die! My brain screams the words. Then the door opens and my parents enter.

I force myself to pull my victor-material facade back up and face them like this is what I've dreamed of.

My mother Theia begins gushing before the door has even closed. "I'm so proud of you Atalanta!" she squeals, wiping tears away with a silk handkerchief.

"C'mere, Victoria," my dad says, calling me by the feminine form of the victor I have to believe I'll be. "My little career! You're going to win these! Mom and I will send you what you need once the alliance breaks up, until then just stay with the pack and kick some outer district butts. You're so well qualified there's no way in…"

I tune out as meaningless pieces of advice clutter the air, nodding my head and smiling every now and again to let them know I'm 'listening'.

Now mom starts in again, wrapping me in a hug as the door opens again; the peacekeepers coming to escort them out. "You look so beautiful," she says, "though I don't see why you had to go and spoil your hair…right before the games too!" she shakes her head, frowning at the offending streak of purple rebellion.

Then the peacekeepers finally get her attention and escort both out of the room.

I take a deep breath as Ella walks in. "Congrats!" she squeals. "We're so gonna back-to-back this. District 1, meet the dynamic duo of girl power, your next two victors!"

I have to smile at her enthusiasm. Ella does that to a person. She just sort of bubbles in and fills a room with excitement. The Capitol will love her. I have no doubt that she'll win next year.

"Hey," I say, putting on a patronizing tone. "You're talking to your future mentor."

She laughs, her dark, almost black eyes snapping. "We are gonna bring our district such glory as it hasn't seen in years! With your spear and my bow, we will be unstoppable!"

She strikes a dramatic pose and I giggle. "Don't count your diamonds before they're cut," I remind her. "You never know what flaws they might have."

"You sound like my mom." She rolls her eyes. "Seriously. I mean, you and I? If we wanted to we could take down the Capitol."

"Ha. Don't let anybody hear you say that." I tease.

"It's hush-hush, no worries," she says. "See you in a few weeks!" she dances out of the room before her time limit is up, sparing herself being escorted from the room. I suppose she'd consider that an indignity.

After she leaves I think about what we said. I am positive that there is like a .0001% chance of me dying, but what if the unthinkable happens? I start to shake again and jerk to my feet, marching to the window and staring out, trying to get ahold of myself.

A hand comes down on my shoulder and I jump. Norcin. I didn't even hear him come in. Without thinking, I throw myself into his arms, shoulders shaking. I don't want to fight anymore against the wave of emotion that is tossing me like a beleaguered leaf.

"Shhhhhhh," he whispers.

I look up in his face, tears in my eyes. To my surprise, his face is wet too.

"What if I don't come back?" I say. "Norcin, I'm afraid to die."

"And I'm afraid to lose you," he whispers. "But there's nothing we can do but try our best in the time that is given to us. You _can_ win these games. You have the ability. You have the heart. You're strong, you're brave. You can fight. Don't let yourself break down. Save that 'til you get home, and I can be there for you. When you're in the arena, use that fear against the others. Let it make you unstoppable, unmerciful. Atalanta." he looks me in the eye. "Don't trust anyone."

He stops my response with a kiss, the first time we've ever actually kissed on the lips, and I know now that I can get back. I have something to come home to. Something to fight for.


	4. Craft and Brawn - District 2

**District 2 Reaping**

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

"Panem, may I introduce the Tributes from District 1, Atalanta Bliss and Caspar Ophir!" The ridiculously fairy-like escort for District 1 finishes on screen, the announcers making comments as District 1 applauds.

I stare at the TV while my father and fourteen year old sister applaud along. I'll be volunteering this year and they wanted to get a look at the competition. Honestly, I'm not too worried about the Games. My grandmother died a few months ago, and since then life hasn't quite seemed as real. I figure that even if something goes wrong, I'll see her again, and that if I win…well, there won't be anything to worry about then will there? I finger my earlobe, running my finger along the smooth silver curve of the largest hoop that adorns my left ear. That particular pair of earrings was her last gift to me.

Here in District 2, no one really understands why I have the piercings, but my grandmother did. It was just who I was, who I wanted to be, and she accepted that and supported me in all I did. Always remember who you are, she would say. Never lose sight of yourself.

"—ld be a threat," my sister Kendall finishes.

"What?" I say, suddenly jerked back to reality.

"I sad, 'The pair from One could be a threat'," she repeats. "Were you even listening?"

"No," I admit sheepishly.

"You need to pay more attention, Ellie," my father warns. "The Games are no joke."

"I know, I know," I scowl, crossing my arms and putting on a fearsome frown. My father isn't fooled. He's lived with me his whole life, naturally, considering I'm his daughter, and both he and my mother have seen my 'aggressive' act for what it is ever since I was little: an act.

"Ellie," he says, his voice warning. "This is serious."

"Honey," my mom pops her head in the door. "You need to go dress for the Reaping. Hurry up, you need to leave in less than twenty minutes!"

I stand up, brushing crumbs of breakfast off my lap. The Reapings are staggered throughout the day, starting with District 1 and moving in order, so that theoretically a Capitol citizen could watch them all. What it just ends up meaning for me is that there's barely time to check out my competition. That scares me. I'm good at gauging people, and not knowing what to expect makes me more than nervous. I finish brushing my hair until it gleams whitely against the low necked silver top that I'll be wearing. My entire outfit is pale, making the watercolor tattoo of a rose that sits just below my collarbone stand out.

Even my hair and skin are nearly white, and hopefully that will help me pull off my strategy. I plan to look like a weaker career until the time is right, then I'll run off and pick off the alliance and everybody else one by one. I made sure to focus on survival skills when I trained at the academy, and should be able to survive on my own for several days as long as the environment has some semblance to nature. I also am a strong swimmer, since my family is rather well off and owns a pool, so I have that advantage too. I ranked third in combat skills among all the girls in the district, and actually I would've been second if they'd judged me with the boys. That makes me happy. I can stand being beaten by girls, but by boys? Never.

The only _boy_ in the district with better fighting skills than me is Mercury Medall, and no wonder. The guy's a professional fight starter, teaser, and trouble maker extraordinaire. We tend to compliment each other in a weird way since we are both masters of humor at other's expense and other so-called rudeness.

He's actually quite handsome, and I just might have the teeniest bit of a crush on him, though I do already have a boyfriend. His name's Carter Mcguire, he's nineteen, and we both love books and have ridiculous coffee addictions. We like watching old footage of the Rebellion together too, as well as old Hunger Games.

I tug one last time at my earrings and run my finger over the sparkling stud in my nose, making sure everything is in the right place. then I head downstairs, my hair fanning out behind me. Time for me to go show the world some girl power!

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

The hiss of the shower splashes in my ears as warm water runs down my body, soothing the purple splotches beginning to appear on my ribs. I scowl angrily. I still can't believe that quarry drunk landed any kind of blows on me!

He was a quarry worker, just a stinking quarry worker, who spent his money boozing in the taverns. I know, because I'd seen him before, so when he challenged me to a fight I didn't think twice on it. It'd be easy. That's what everyone else seemed to have thought, too, considering the odds they put on me were quite favorable. I didn't let 'em down either, but it was one heck of a fight, and it shouldn't a been.

Ever since I started snowballing peacekeepers just for the fun of it when I was thirteen I've had a reputation, and once I started in the street-fights two years back I was right away the best. I turn in the shower to let the water rinse my front and curse as the movement sends pain down my side. I gave better than I got, and I doubt the other guy'll walk for a week, but he isn't volunteering today. I am, and the bruises are something I can't afford.

I'm the best in the academy, and no wonder since I have all the extra practice at hand-to-hand, but I'm still miffed that the top two girls in the academy had better combat skills than me, and the girl in third was almost as good. I'm still not sure why they picked her to volunteer. She's just seventeen and not the best fighter in her class, but she must have other skills that I don't know about. Like maybe she skewers her enemies with her nose pin.

I snort at the idea. The girl has some of the weirdest fashion choices I've ever seen. She has ridiculously huge grey eyes too, and looks like she's never seen the sun in her life, but she's not my thing.

I switch off the shower and pull on my reaping outfit. I really don't care what I wear most of the time since I'll just sweat or bleed on it anyway considering my dangerous pastimes, but my grandparents want me to dress up for the reaping, and they have a point. First impressions are very important.

That's why I've never liked my family. See, my dad walked out before I could even remember him, and then mom just let herself sorta die, of grief I guess, when I was four. Then my grandparents took me in. They try to be nice in their own way I suppose, but they don't understand that Panem freedom that boils in my veins. I have to fight and anger and tease, because all those quarry and outer district worms deserve it.

I'm the best and I know it.

My grandparents quit trying to control me when I was ten, and I'm awful glad of it too. It was real aggravating having them on my back there for a while. Most of the time they just pretend not even to have noticed I was out.

I climb out the window, just because it's more fun then down the stairs and out the door, and run my hand through my stiff light brown hair, pushing it up. I think it looks quite dashing that way. My grandparents already wished me luck last night, probably correctly anticipating that I'd be out this morning. Dang it, my ribs are still so sore…

I drop the thought as my friend Arty comes round the corner. We slap each other on the back and high-five. His dad's a quarry worker, and typically I wouldn't associate with that kind, but he's a boy after my own heart. We've worked some pretty epic break-ins together. Like one time when we robbed a jewelry store that had a fully functional alarm system. That was pretty awesome.

We walk together to the Reaping, Arty talking excitedly about what it'll be like to live in the Victor's Village. To me, the coolest idea he comes up with is one to rob Androcles Mandan. He was District Two's first ever Victor, but he's just an overweight, crazy old man now. He's got all sorts of cool stuff though, word is he's even got some stuff from outer Districts that he picked up on his victory tour. I'm still dreaming of sensational heists when we walk into the square, and I almost punch the peacekeeper that's signing people in before I realize that that's all the sharp prick in my finger was, not an attack.

Arty's nineteen so he stands outside the section for eighteen year old boys, watching me. I start quivering in anticipation. This is going to be the adventure of a life time. I'll beat those outer district slugs, pompous, sicky-sweet ones and oh-so-cool easy fours.

It's all I can do to keep from rubbing my hands together, the way I do when a break in is just too simple.

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

My friend Clara stands next to me for support as I take my place in the girls' section. Her presence steadies me, despite the fact that she's only just over five feet tall, a full head shorter than me. Her dark curly hair bubbles over her shoulders and her dark eyes snap in her excitement for me. She trains hard and is lethal with knives but the trainers decided she's just to small, and she won't be asked to return to the academy next year when she's eighteen. I can see that it makes her sad, since it was training that originally brought us together, and we still distance run in the forest and practice hand to hand with each other.

Neither of us are gossips, but we still talk a lot about boys, and I think she's rather jealous that I'm going to have this chance to win the Games and be the silver star of my district. She knows the guys are all over victors.

As Mira Effervescent floats onto the stage, her gauzy gold dress floating around her and mixing with her at least three feet of fuzzy blonde hair, walks onto the stage I steady myself, swallowing hard. The video we watch every year goes by in a blur, and the next thing I know her delicate sparkling hand is reaching into the Reaping bowl. She reads the name, which barely even registers in my head, and suddenly I'm scared. A girl begins to move toward the stage and I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. What if I die? What if I never ever see my parents or Kendall again?

 _You'll see me,_ my grandmother's voice seems to say. Whether it was my imagination or not, courage rushes through me and I step forward, my voice cracking across the crowd. "I volunteer," I say no longer wavering as I mount the stage. The other girl melts back into the crowd before I even see her face and I take my place by the girls bowl, standing just in front of our previous victors. Now it's the boys' turn.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

I stand up straighter as our escort moves to the bowl, dipping in a delicate hand. "Boulder Pruett," she reads, but before the sixteen-year-old son of a quarry worker steps forward, I shoot a hand in the air. "I volunteer," I proclaim, "I volunteer. To be the tribute of the year."

I'd seen the District 1 Reaping, and saw what their catchy lines did for the crowd. It wasn't hard to realize I should say something clever, but obviously it couldn't be the exact same thing as they said, so I came up with my little rhyme. It implies that I'll be victor without parroting the words of the the purple haired demon-goddess from One. I can tell already that those two are a threat, though it seemed like there was some sort of tension between them. Exactly what I wasn't sure.

Anyway, I stop thinking about it to drink in the adulation of the crowd. It's bigger than any applause I've ever received for one of my street fights, but the rousing satisfaction is the same. I pump my fist in the air and cheer, grabbing the hand of my slightly shell-shocked looking District partner and raise our arms together. She catches on quickly and is soon smiling and waving as Mira proclaims our names to the world. District 1, here we come.

I'm still basking in the roar that continues long after we enter the Justice Building when the door opens, admitting my grandparents. I can hardly suppress an eyeroll. They don't care what happens to me. In fact, they're probably just happy to be rid of my lawlessness.

"We support you, Mercury."

My grandmother starts the meaningless blather with that near-neutral statement. My earlier beliefs are confirmed by the words my grandfather adds, dashing any belief that could have remained that she'd actually _meant_ it.

"Herra and I are so glad to see use using your talents for something honorable," he says.

It takes no effort to mentally add on the unspoken 'for once' that he obviously wishes he could say.

"Yay, awesome, thrilled." I say. "I think your times up though, nice talking to you." I turn away unil their time really is up and the peacekeepers take them away. They annoy me _so much._ The first thing I'll do as Victor is install an annoying adult sensor and vaporizer above the door in the Victor's Village. I _hate_ being responsible, and annoying adults love to pressure me to be.

This makes the next visitor, or should I say visitors, much more welcome. It's my aunt and my three girl cousins, Oria, Elia, and Alexis. Oria's a real tough cookie even though she's only fourteen, but I guess being the oldest in her family made her that way. She's like my manager, holding the bets on my fights and selling off the stuff Arty and I bring in from stores. Her parents are fine with it, since my uncle was a fighter himself before he died of some sort of head condition.

Anyhow, they're immediately all over me, squealing and hugging and whatnot, all except Oria who stands in the corner and waits her turn. When they've finished high-fiving me twice each, Oria comes up to me, her dark eyes smoldering with the flame she always has kindled there. Her red hair only adds to the illusion of a hidden fire.

"Here," she says, shoving something into my hand. "Your token." She leans in as though overcome by emotion and preparing to sob into my shoulder, but instead of crying she whispers under her breath, fierce and urgent. "When you twist it there's a needle. It's got stuff on it. It'll kill, not painfully but slowly, just sort of putting to sleep whoever you jab with it. Be careful. Mom put it together and it's really hard to figure out so hopefully you can get it past the game makers." With a fake sniff, she withdraws, wiping her eyes. My aunt gives me a hug before shepherding the girls out of the room.

Once the door is safely closed, I open my hand. Attached to a thin silver chain, lying sparkling in my palm, is a little saber. It _looks_ completely solid. I smile.

I really love my family.

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

The door opens to admit my first visitor, and my whole family pours in! Kendall leaps right into my arms, knocking me back into the chair I had just risen from, tears streaming down her face. The sight brings back my worries from before.

"Ellie, Ellie, Ellie," she sobs, "Ellie…"

My mom pulls her off, seeing that I'm dangerously close to freaking out over her, and looks at me.

"I believe in you Ellie," she says, her voice low and fierce. "I raise strong girls and you're going to come home a winner. Kendall believes that too. Right?" She stares Kendall in the face, as though daring her to disagree.

She nods weepily, gulping and getting herself under control. "I believe in you Ellie," she says, her voice quaking slightly.

"So do I," my father adds, wrapping us all in a group hug in his broad arms. "You'll come back."

We stay like that until the time is up and my family is forced to leave the room. A jolt of panic forces bile into my throat. What if that's the last time I ever see them? But it won't be.

Then and there I swear to myself on the soul of my grandmother it won't be. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Clara and Carter come in together, and Carter starts to kiss me before Clara stops him, saying something about being there as chaperone. He kisses me anyway.

Clara makes a gagging noise. "Now that we're done with the icky part," she says, "Carter and I have something to say. Pick someone you trust and give them your loyalty. Get them to trust you. But never, _ever_ trust them. When the time comes to break off the alliance take them with you, then get rid of them when the time is ripe."

"Sometimes hiding out is the best way to go," Carter adds. "Once you're on your own, do that, that's what you're good at. If only careers are left, you can starve them out. Be stealthy. Be smart." He leans into my hair. "Be safe."

And just like that, their time's up and they leave. I'm officially a tribute. I tug on my earrings. What have I gotten myself into?

Then I know the answer.

I'm _so_ tired of big, buff, blond male specimens winning. Now's my chance to show some epic girl power.

Panem, here I come.


	5. Conceit and Love - District 3

**District 3 Reaping**

* * *

 **Wilhelmina Dye, 12**

 **District 3 Female**

* * *

Downstairs the TV jabbers as my parents watch the Reapings. I twist my hair around my finger and frown. Why does it have to be so curly? Finally, I decide to quit worrying about it and push it back in a pale pink headband. It frizzes around my face and I sigh with annoyance again, but there's no time to play with it.

My first Reaping is today, and I need to make a good impression.

I've always loved the Games, especially that moment when a tribute becomes a victor. It's just so thrilling, and I almost always pick a winner. My dad takes my advice on his sponsorships 'cause I just have that instinct.

I twirl in front of the mirror, letting my bright blue dress fan out around me.

I open the door to run downstairs when I realize I forgot something. Leaving the door half-open, I run back to my vanity and snatch up my locket. My friends Camara, Izzy, Velly, and Geera stare back at me along with my own freckled face. We all have matching ones, and wear them _everywhere._

I clasp it around my neck and dash downstairs, barging into the living room. My brother Patrick stops mid-sentence, noticing me. "Hi, Willi!" he says. "You slow-poke, you missed the career Reapings."

I snort. "Who cares, I can catch up when I get back."

Patrick laughs. "Huh. If you actually leave."

"Yes," my mother says, frowning at me. "You'd better head out. Hurry, you really mustn't be late, we'd get into all kinds of trouble. We'll catch up with you."

"Okay," I say, but mom doesn't hear me.

"You were saying?" she turns to Patrick, listening as he recounts his first impressions of the careers.

I sigh as I leave the house. Mom _always_ pays more attention to Patrick then me, ever since he won the Games. When I'm eighteen I'll volunteer too and then we'll be even. I leave the Victor's Village, where we live with Patrick, slipping through the metal gate, and out into the street. I glance up and down, and spot my friends waiting for me at the curb. They wave enthusiastically and I wave back, breaking into a run. Running in two inch heels is hard, but I can do it.

"Where the heck _were_ you?" Geera says as soon as I'm in earshot.

"Getting ready," I say, as I slow to a walk and we all start toward the square. "These stupid curls take _forever_ to brush."

As always, my friends counter with a chorus of protest. "Your hair's beautiful, Willi!"

"Yeah, way nicer than my old sticks."

" _I've_ always wanted curls."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever," I say, "but they still take forever."

Velly laughs, and launches into an account of her father's latest breakthrough in technology. A special tablet that has interactive videogame-like recordings of all the games to date. Apparently their first model blew up, but after a year of testing he's refined it and they're making a fortune.

I sigh jealously. Mom's a CEO at one of the big names in Three, but she just manages meetings and promotes sales and placates testy workers. She's never actually _invented_ anything herself. Maybe after I'm a Victor _I'll_ invent something amazing. But of course I have to win the Games first, to get my name out there.

I smile.

Only six more years until the Games are _my_ spotlight.

* * *

 **Daniel Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

B-chord? Nope.

A-flat? Nope.

Sighing, I put down the guitar. I've almost got it, I know I do. Frustrated, I walk to the window, unable to get the song out out my head. It's already pretty good, but for Ebony it has to be perfect. I love writing serenades for her, and she loves it too, but when I can't think of anything, then what?

I've already played her all the love songs I know. District 3 doesn't have a lot of them. Most of our songs here are sad, but Ebony makes me happy, so I write my own songs. Happy ones.

That's it!

I grab the guitar. A-flat and A-sharp in quick succession. Perfect.

I launch into the melody, and am practicing adding emphasis in the right spots when my mother walks into the room.

"Danny?" she says. "Oh, there you are. That sounded beautiful."

She smiles, the worn look on her face smoothing away. My mother was beautiful once, I remember when I was little arguing with a friend over who's mother was prettier. The last few years have been very hard on her, gray now speckles her once-shiny brown hair, and there is a hint of suffering in her chocolate eyes.

Last year she was testing out a new piece of technology, some sort of Games-related entertainment piece I think, when it blew up, scarring her hands and leaving her deaf in one ear and partially in the other. It makes me so angry that the Capitol takes the people of our District and makes them test products for their entertainment. My mother isn't the only tester that's been hurt either; some have even been killed.

I lay my guitar in its worn case and lean it lovingly against the wall, my mind already jumping ahead to tonight. I'll climb out the window, scurry down the street, climb onto Ebony's roof and sing.

I talk best when I sing, there's a certain sincerity that comes out in a song, and an added gentleness and tenderness in the poetic rhymes. It makes me so happy that I can bring joy to others through my music; some of the wealthier families even pay me to teach music lessons. I sigh, with one last lingering look at the battered black case of the guitar. I can't wait to get home and perfect the song.

My mother smiles at me, waiting patiently, then we turn and head down stairs.

My father is already waiting at the door, and opens it for my mother as we pass through. I reach into my pocket and finger the hard lump of round metal that lies there. It's become my good luck charm, my inspiration when I'm nervous that reminds me I can be beaten but I never ever lose.

There's a story to my ring, and as I remember it the thin white line on my cheekbone tingles lightly. It was a horrible day, but I think of it as being good, because it brought me and Ebony to realize our feelings. I still remember her teary face when I climbed to her window with my guitar one night. I was afraid someone had died, but then she told me her dog got out.

Sure, I was relieved that it wasn't something worse, but Ebony loves Sable and I had to help her.

She was afraid the peacekeepers would kill her, as it was night and peacekeepers on night shift are usually too surly to ask questions about a stray. I found the dog in the market, rooting through the trash, but the peacekeepers were already there, aiming a gun at her. I yelled for them to stop, but whether you're right or not doesn't matter, when you order a peacekeeper he gets mad at you. They were going to let us go with just a few harsh words and a warning, but the merchant who's trash it was came out and accused us of stealing.

The peacekeepers were mad at me anyway and didn't need much of an excuse to start hitting me. Sable ran off, but they weren't done with me yet, and by the time they were through I was half lucid on the cobblestones with two black eyes, a split lip, and a nasty gash on my cheek. One of the peacekeepers was wearing a ring, the one that cut me, but it fell off and I found it on the cobbles. Once I got home I just wanted to keep it for some reason.

When Eb saw Sable back she cried and cried, and when she saw my face she cried more, but she kissed me anyway and I guess she liked it because we've been a couple ever since.

I turn the last corner to the square and emerge into the milling crowd. A peacekeeper sticks my finger and signs me in. I walk over to the girls' section, scanning the crowded square for Ebony. There's a few minutes before they draw the actual name, and I might as well visit with Eb while I wait. I spot her off to the side, and her quiet attitude drops away when she spots me, her grey eyes dancing as she waves. She runs over, her long legs bringing her to me quickly.

"Hey," I say, hugging her.

"Hey yourself," she says, hugging back before stepping away. "You look great, Dan" she says, her voice soft.

"You too," I say, and I mean it. Her dress isn't fancy, in fact it's a little on the faded side, but the pale violet echoes her quiet sweetness, and makes her pink lips and pale eyes under dark, curling lashes almost glow. Her hair falls past her shoulder blades in ebony waves, curly from just being unbraided. She's a very quiet girl, but I love her that way. Her chaste beauty glows with much more appeal than than the flashy flare of a flirt.

I glance around, expecting to see my other friend Nova coming to meet us. The Reaping is about to commence, and I don't see him. "Where's Nova?" I asks her.

The laughter leaves her eyes and they well up. "Arabella," she says. "Arabella died last night."

"Oh no," I say. Arabella was a beautiful, bubbly girl. She and Nova weren't an item, Nova's only fourteen anyway, but it was obvious he had it bad for her. He'd told me more than once he had a crush on her.

"What happened?"

"No one's really sure yet," Ebony says, sniffing. "She tried to break into a store and was shot in the act."

I open my mouth to ask more when the door in the Justice Building opens and our mayor walks onto the stage. I'm forced to run over to the boy's section as the video commences.

* * *

 **Wilhelmina Dye, 12**

 **District 3 Female**

* * *

I hear the video they always play begin and stop whispering with Velly, turning to face the stage. I've seen the video a dozen times before, and it's getting monotonous. I make faces, mouthing the words in grotesque expressions. Velly begins to giggle, then the others, but a dirty look from a peacekeeper shuts me up with only a defiant eyeroll.

Normally I'd tease anyone who told me to shut up, nobody can touch the daughter of a CEO, but peacekeepers on Reaping Day are not to be trifled with. I cross my arms and twiddle my thumbs until with a last gruesome image and exaggerated musical flourish, the video ends.

Our escort, Dominic Leonidas, moves to the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen of District 3," he begins, his voice high, nasal, and squeaky as a mouse. "I am honored to be here on this most glorious holiday of the year."

I applaud enthusiastically with those around me. "It is now time to discover the two glorious individuals that will battle for the honor of our district this year."

His hand, twisted with tattoos of flowering vines, drifts toward the reaping bowl.

"Ladies first, as is fit and proper," he says, his hand scrabbling among the slips.

He automatically annoys me. Women escorts are always much prettier, and I wonder what our district did to deserve this bumbling freak. He has no sense of drama at all! Why, he might as well—My pattern of thought breaks as he finally selects a slip and removes it from the bowl, unfolding it carefully, almost tenderly.

"Wilhelmina Dye," he announces, his clipped words mangling my name.

Wait, _my_ name.

I'm shocked at first. I'm just twelve! But then I think about it logically as I will my shuffling feet to move. I was going to volunteer anyway. I'm just a little early, that's all. Then I know, as my confidence floods in, that I'm going to win the Games this year.

I'll be the youngest Victor ever. I mean, after all, who could help but love me?

* * *

 **Daniel Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

I wince as I see the girl making her way to the stage. A twelve year old. It always makes me want to puke when they're chosen, and even more so when they die. This girl is beautiful, sandy curls cascading down her back. Oh God, she'll die in the bloodbath for sure.

But something's wrong.

There's a confidence in her stride and a spring in her step that shouldn't be there. Her face is smug. She mounts the steps, then strides up to the microphone, without being invited to speak.

"Hi," she squeaks. "I'm Willi, your youngest Victor ever."

No one claps, they're all as stunned as I am. My first guess would be that this girl's off her rocker, but then the smug face and the fancy clothes finally line up in my mind. She's Patrick Dye's sister.

Patrick won the Games a few years back, and whatever he told his sister about them wasn't the truth. Otherwise, she wouldn't be naively smiling her way to death.

Annoyed, our escort snatches the microphone away from the girl. He glares at her. "It is now time to select our male tribute," he announces. He's ruffled at the girl's insolence, and looks a lot like an angry hen. Normally I'd laugh at the absurdity, but after what I just saw I can't.

Curse Panem. They're not content with taking our children, they have to take our innocence too.

All those thoughts are squelched from my mind though when Dominic reads the name.

It's me.

It's me.

 _It's me._

Inside my head, the words rise to a crescendo, spinning around me in wild circles my eyes can't follow as the blood drains from my face. _Walk,_ I tell myself, but it's easier said then done, and after the first few steps my feet tangle together and I fall.

A gloved hand catches my arm, wrenching at the socket as a pinching grip holds me upright. Slowly, the world fades back in. Control yourself, I order.

Shape. Up.

So I do. Putting on the best feisty-face I can, I scowl and push the peacekeeper's hand away from me, walking up to the stage. The token applause that our district always gives seems to echo inside my head, like a knell of doom, but I shove the thought away. I have to come back to Eb. And the Games start now.

As confidently as I can, I mount the stage, taking my place across from the little girl. She extends a hand, almost grudgingly, but I don't worry about it. Win or lose the games, I refuse to lose myself, so I wrap her into a hug instead of the usual handshake.

"What are you doing," she hisses, her eyes igniting with rage. "You're making me look weak!"

She shoves me off and I stumble back, startled. The escort announces our names, and I am dragged off to the Justice Building, still staring back over my shoulder at the strange girl.

Who sticks her tongue out at me.

* * *

 **Wilhelmina Dye, 12**

 **District 3 Female**

* * *

Fuming, I hurl myself into a chair. What was that idiot boy thinking? He ruined my image! Sure, I still have the wicked archery skills Patrick drilled into me after he got back, but so what?

I'm going to have to be a serious tough girl if I want to fix his blunder.

The door opens and I turn, expecting it to be my parents, but it's Patrick instead.

That hurts, so I scowl even harder than before. Tough girl.

"Where the heck are mom and dad?" I say, exasperated.

"Watching the Reapings," Patrick says. They wanted to check something on that D1 girl. I saw you get reaped on the other screen so I ran over."

That _really_ hurts. They're not even coming to say goodbye.

"Willi," Patrick says. Usually he's a joker but his tone is dead serious, getting my attention. I turn to him, and see with amazement that there are tears shining in his eyes.

"You wanted to volunteer, you know what to do. They're going to underestimate you, so hide your skills. You're twelve, they're going to expect some teddy-bear toting stereotype. _Do not_ try to prove them wrong. Make them think you're not a threat. Get your hands on a bow if you can, and then stay in the shadows."

"O-kaaay," I say. "You've told me all this a million times already."

"I know," he says. "But I have to make sure you understand. You've got some major disadvantages out there, and I want you back, Willi. I really do."

He leans in and hugs me. My brother _never_ hugs me. That gets me a little nervous.

"OK," I say again. "See you on the train."

He smiles and leaves the room.

I brush away a tear. Stop it, I tell myself. Then the girls barge in.

Tears are pouring down Geera's face, Velly looks triumphantly happy for me, and both Izzy and Camara are still figuring out their side. I take the lead.

"Hey!" I yell, pulling them all into a group hug.

Geera cries harder, sobbing into my dress. Annoyed, Velly pulls her away.

"What the heck, Geera! Willi's gonna win the Games. Right?" She turns to me, her face the picture of confidence.

"Absolutely," I say. "I mean, I totally saved somebody's butt getting reaped. Can you imagine what woulda happened if someone like, I dunn know, Pixelle Rush got reaped?"

Even Geera laughs hysterically. Pixelle is a klutz. She's always dropping her books and tripping over things. Plus, she's a nerd. She's even got the glasses.

"She'd be a bloodbath," Izzy says confidently. "No doubt about it."

We all dissolve into gales of laughter.

"In fact," Camara chokes, "she'd probably trip on her own feet, fall on her own knife, and _die!_ "

"She'd be whiter in the face then your district partner!"

"She'd be white as a ghost. Because she would be a ghost."

We laugh harder, bringing up increasingly wild and hilarious possibilities until my friends have to go.

"See you in a few weeks!" Velly calls.

"Until then," I respond. This is going to be fun.

* * *

 **Daniel Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

The door opens and my parents come in. The worry lines on my mother's face are deeper than ever; she seems to have aged years since I saw her this morning. Her eyes are cloudy with tears. I rise to meet them, flinging myself into my mother's arms. Suddenly, I feel six years old again, where when I was upset, a hug from Mamma made everything better.

I'm crying before I realize it.

"Dan," my father begins. "We haven't got much time, but listen to me. You're a bright boy, you're clever with your fingers. Listen to your mentors, play it smart, and outthink the others."

"Your father's right," my mother says. "You can do anything if you set your mind to it." Then her face wavers. "Oh Dan, my baby, my only baby…"

She clings to my neck and we cry together, even my father's broad shoulders shaking. Then the peacekeepers come in and drag them from the room. At first my mother tries to fight them, but in the end she gives in. I can't get her image out of my mind.

She looked broken.

I've barely composed myself in one of the luxurious chairs before Ebony races into the room and flings herself recklessly into my arms. I hold her for a moment while she cries stormily into my shoulder, stroking her wavy hair. After a minute, her sobs subside and she looks up.

The red rims around her eyes, and the shiny film of tears that clouds them, seem to make her more beautiful then ever. Her long lashes stick together, matted with salt.

"Dan," she chokes out, "oh Dan…"

I pull her closer, if that's even possible. "Shhhh," I say. "I wrote a song for you."

She wipes her eyes and sits up with an effort, still holding my hands but under control. She even manages a ghost of a smile.

"Do you want to hear it?" I whisper.

"Yes, Danny." Her answer comes back, barely audible.

Softly, tenderly, I begin, singing as though I were comforting a child.

 _Life is a river  
_ _Flowing to the sea  
_ _Will you  
_ _Take this journey with me?_

 _In a boat  
_ _Floating gently  
_ _I'll bend down  
_ _Pluck you a lily_

 _The moon is high  
_ _The water still  
_ _I'll kiss you there  
_ _And be as one, we will_

I trail off, the notes ending. "It's still a rough draft," I say. "But I thought you should hear it. Seeing as I might not…might not…" I can't say it. Up until now, my worry was for my family and for Ebony. How would they handle it? Now, reality begins to sink in.

She looks me in the eye, almost fiercely. "Come back, Dan." she says, and it isn't a request, it's an order.

"I'll try, Eb, really I'll try," I say. "But I'm not going to lose myself in there. You wouldn't want me if I came back…changed."

"You're right," she says, her voice small. "But try to come back if you can. Please, please try. If you do…" she hesitates and bites her lip, "I'll sail with you to the end of the world."

I lean in and kiss her, and she surrenders as we wrap our hands in each other's hair. "I'll come back, Ebony." I say. "We _will_ see each other again. If not in this life, than in the next."

She sniffs, nodding.

"You should go," I say. "Before they come for you." She nods, pressing something into my hand, and flees the room.

I look down. A thick lock of black hair lies coiled in my palm.

I smile through my tears. If anyone can win the Games with brains and grit, I can.

Because I have something to fight for.


	6. Determination and Devotion - District 4

**District 4 Reaping**

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

"Yah!" I yell, the exclamation torn from my lips as I swing my knife toward Delphina.

She meets the stroke with a crack, blocking it with her own weapon. Deftly, I twist my blade up and over, hooking it under her hand guard and sending her own knife flying from her grasp. She puts her hands in the air in a joking gesture of surrender.

"Beaten again," she says. "If I wasn't your best friend I'd kill you in your sleep."

I laugh. "Del, if you weren't my best friend you'd never have the chance." I raise my hand to my face, clearing it of the sweat that beads in droplets on my forehead, and pushing back a few strands of hair that escaped from my braid. My hair is straight, but most people think it's curly because it's always either braided or wavy from being braided. It's very thick, and when unbraided is quite a nuisance.

Of course, a Victor must keep up appearances, and so ever since they told me I'd be representing District 4 this year I've let it grow out. The Capitol loves beauty.

"I am _so_ sweaty it's not even funny," Del says, rubbing her perspiring face even harder than I'd just rubbed mine. She flops down against the wall with a sigh, panting. "And I just showered too. Hopefully I wont look all greasy at the Reaping."

"Doesn't matter," I gasp, still panting. "You're not the one that's going to be on camera."

"I know," she sighs. "I'm _so_ jealous. The eyes of Panem will be on you. Including the eyes of the _boys_ of Panem."

"Hah," I say. "Don't let Salvo hear you talk like that. He might feel under-appreciated." Despite my light-heartedness, the words come out slightly bitter. It's hard not to feel jealous of Delphina's easy relationship with all members of the male gender. She's a born flirt, and I've ended up riding third-wheel more than once when hanging out with her.

She's nice, and we've trained together since we were little. We're both throwing-knife girls, though we spar hand to hand a lot like we just did now. I've always known I could win the Games, and Del could too if she wanted, but she's more into the knives as a sport, a way of taking up her time and proving her superiority.

Though actually I can beat her and nearly always do.

Yes, she's nice. Usually I feel more fulfilled around Monica. Monica's my other best friend, and she's nearly the opposite of Delphina. She's sweet and quiet, and she never wanted to enter the Games. Her very first year of training she wasn't asked to return to the academy, and went to work on a fishing trawler. I didn't understand her decision then, and I don't think I ever will, but she's still the girl that's been like a big sister to me, and even like a mom in some ways, though she's only a year older than I am.

I never knew my real mother, she died giving birth to me, but I've seen pictures and know that we have the same big blue eyes and auburn hair. Wild as a tempest, my father would say, until I lost him too.

Monica was there for me then also, and she's helped me hang onto myself even when I'm feeling lonely. I live with my grandparents now, and they take good care of me, but I know from snippets of dialogue heard in the dead of night, and moments of accidental eaves-dropping that I remind them of mom. And that hurts them.

They never take it out on me or anything, but I'll catch them giving me a sad glance, a sigh from my grandfather, a tear from my grandfather, or a murmur picked up by my keen ears: "She's so like our Cami."

The malaise I fall under when I think about this lies heavily on me now as I leave the gym\not-so-secret training center, and even the stream of cheerful chatter kept up by Del can't quite pull me out. I slept over at her house last night so I wouldn't have to worry about taking the bus and getting in in time for the Reaping. I live toward the edge of District 4, and getting to the Reaping would mean cramming onto a trolley with all the working-class kids and then tumbling out right as the videos start. Instead, Del's hospitality has given me a chance to loosen my nerves with a bout of sparring and still have time to get myself looking nice for my big moment.

We walk down the street toward her house. The smell of fish lies heavy on the air, and I can see people moving about the ghostly streets in the morning fog. There is a sense of gloom in the air that I can't quite understand.

I've trained my whole life for the Games, but a large portion of our District doesn't, in fact in many areas the resentment against the Capitol is barely veiled. There have even been years where no one volunteers, and some years we'll have a girl volunteer but no boy or vice-versa. From the conversations between tributes that go on during the Games, I've gathered that Districts 1 and 2 both have much more efficient training centers, and that there have even been cases where a tribute beat up the person who was supposed to volunteer so that they could go to the Games instead. They even take pride in it.

To be honest, I've always liked District 2 tributes myself. There is an aura of strength and command about them. As we reach Del's house and head upstairs to get ready, I think about that. I'm going to have to have that confidence too if I want to win.

I'm still strategizing as I look in Del's bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on my appearance. A strappy blue dress, long and ruffly in the back but short in the front shows off my long legs, and a silver necklace sparkles against my chest. I dab a bit of moisturizing salve on my lips and unbraid my hair, letting it curl around my shoulders. It's straight, but I have it in a braid so often that when it isn't it looks curly.

Outside, Del taps her foot impatiently. "You ready yet?" she calls.

"Yep," I say, inspecting myself one last time and heading for the door.

We leave the house together, and already the fog has begun to burn off. The day promises to be a real cooker. Summer days in Four usually are.

The sun bathes the streets in light, showing me that Monica stands on the curb waiting for us.

"Hey, Cy," she says softly as we walk up. "You're planning on going through with this?"

"Absolutely!" I respond. "Why? Do you not believe in me?"

"Oh no," she says quickly. "It isn't that. But do you really want to risk your life for fame and fortune? You already have a nice life here in Four."

"It'll be worth it," I tell her confidently. "But seriously? Nice life? Sure, it's nice now when the District is so desperate for glory that a few of the wealthier families pay for the training of us that want to, but what about next year when I'm nineteen? I'm going to, what, spend the rest of my life with jellyfish in my hair, smelling like a fish, being seasick, and working on a boat?"

Monica smiles. "It's not that bad, Cy. You _are_ right about the jellyfish, they get all tangled up in the lines and drip down on your head, but when you're out there smelling the sea, all alone with just a few of your closest companions, you don't feel it at all. You love the water, Cy. And the sun. It would be perfect. I've worked long enough I could probably even pull a few strings and get us on the same boat."

"And where would that leave me?" Del cuts in.

I roll my eyes as Monica sweetly tries to explain her perspective to my rowdy companion. The two are as different as night and day, and I'm used to them arguing.

I tune out. There's nothing I need to hear anyway.

My mind is made up.

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

My eyes linger on the bright steel of the arakh as I step outside the door. Brighter is the sun, glancing in stabs of white off the sparkling azure of the ocean. The brightness would almost be painful if it were not so beautiful, but I am a fisherman's son. I love the sea, it calls me, and it holds no terror. I can squint my eyes at just the right angle to neutralize the glare, and sometimes it feels like if I wanted to I could sail straight to the sun.

Behind me, I feel Hazel's light touch on my shoulder, warm and sturdy, but somehow soft all the same.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she says.

"Yes," I answer, smiling.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes," I repeat.

"Good." she says. "I know you'll win, Enzo. How could you not? You've trained all your life with that beautiful sword. How could you not?"

I turn to her, admiring the gold luster of her blonde hair. It and her blue eyes contrast sharply with the brown of her skin, as lustrous and smooth as the nut for which she was named. She is a daughter of the sea, even as I am a son, and the tan of years on a beach lies on her skin. Sometimes I can imagine her as Venus, rising from the waves on a chariot of shell, born by horses of foam, even the waves bowing to her as she passes.

When I come back, we will together be king and queen of the sea.

With a last, lingering look at my grandfather's old weapon, I close the door. Mother and father stand in the road, waiting for us, their faces shaded in the shifting patterns of the palm tree outside our door. It grows between my uncle's fishing dock and my parent's front porch, shading the communal fire pit between our two houses. When my grandfather died, his fishing tackle and boat went to my uncle Lorenzo, but the house and the sword went to my father.

I have always admired the arakh, and am sorry my grandfather will not be able to see me compete for the glory of Victor. It was with his old weapon that I have trained with, and it will be in his honor that I will win the Games. It will also be for Hazel.

When I return we are to be married. I can already hear the sweet strains of Four's wedding song swaying in the air, but first I must win so I push the sweet fantasy away.

I follow mother and father down the path and onto the main road. The chatter in the main square is already audible even from here. We live only a few blocks away, and as Hazel and I clasp hands, turning a corner, the scenery changes abruptly. Instead of the well ordered little fishing cottages that dot the shore we are now in the manufacturing sector. The fresh salt of the sea is replaced by the rotting smell of discarded fish that always seems to wrap the canneries in an evil-smelling cloud.

I shudder. My mother was, and still is in my opinion, the most beautiful woman in the District, and yet she was trapped working here in the canneries by some cruel twist of fate. I think that is what attracted my father to her though, was the patience with which she bore her burden. She never complained and was grateful to be able to take care of her family.

Hazel's like that too. I've seen her ward off advances from other boys, and from the beginning our eyes have rested upon each other and each other alone.

I'm an only child, and I want to give any children that may be born of my love for Hazel the very best life I can. With Enzo Garrix a household name in Panem, my children will have that life.

"Enzo, watch where you're going!"

Hazel's voice, tinged with alarm pulls me out of my reverie. I glance around.

Then jump.

Less than a foot from my face is a rope, dripping with fresh grease, that ties one of the great fishing trawlers to the pier. Two more steps and my face would have been besmeared.

I step back and pull her to me. "The prince is supposed to do the saving in a romance," I tell her. "Not the other way around."

"Oh, Enzo." She fakes a pout. "You know I'm no helpless female. Now put me down or we'll be late."

She has a point, and I set her on the dock before we continue inside. We stop just within the door, standing in line until it is our turn to sign in. I wince as the needle pierces Hazel's soft flesh, sending a drop of ruby blood onto the white paper. I hate seeing other people touch my girl.

She catches me staring and rolls her eyes.

Then it's my turn, and I have to feel a sense of satisfaction as it takes them two pokes to get a satisfactory drop. I have built up calluses from hard training on my hands, and they show my strength.

Hazel is ready to waylay me the moment I am signed in.

"What was with you there?" she says. "It was just a poke. I'm _not_ a helpless female."

"No," I tease, "you're _my_ helpless female."

I probably would've done something stupid then, like tickled her, but she gestures to the people around us and I content myself with kissing her hand, earning myself another eye-roll. The job of lover is a thankless task indeed, I decide, filing into my section.

Except, of course, when it isn't.

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

When he walks in the door, I swear my heart stops beating. A tall boy, with swarthy skin and laughing deep brown eyes. All the same, there is a thoughtfulness behind the touch of humor in those brown pools that speaks to me in the same way Monica does: comforting.

He's tall for a teenager, the same height as the peacekeeper signing him in. There is a shadow of beard on his face, and his thick, dark eyebrows give him a focused look. I don't think I've ever seen him before; if he trains he must train at home.

Jealousy flares as I see the girl who was in front of him say something, a joking frown on her face. He says something back before playfully kissing her hand. Great. Right before I'm scheduled to head off to the possible-death-games, I see prince charming. And he already has a princess.

I berate myself for my foolishness. What place does a crush have in the Hunger Games? I'm going to need to focus if I want to win. But that boy…my eyes can't help but follow his thick black hair as his head bobs away into the boy's section, a full head taller than the rest of the crowd.

He's only seventeen, Cyma, I tell myself as I notice the age section he enters. You're eighteen. Get ahold of your feelings. Focus. Focus…

I am grateful for the distraction when our escort Tilly Pompadour, followed closely by the Mayor, arrives on stage. Her outfit is actually rather pretty this year, thick brown hair swept back and dyed blue and white at the tips. Curling above her head in an elaborate bun, it resembles the curving crest of a wave. Her multiple ear peircings hold delicate pearls, and her dress, slit high up the leg, is studded with blue sequins. The same blue sparkle surrounds her eyes, along with green paint, and dolphins swim down her arm.

She actually represents the district quite well, in her own Capitolish way.

She taps the microphone, sending thuds from the speakers that reverberate throughout the pavilion.

"My dear friends," she begins, "it is simply wonderful to be here yet again, my tenth year as escort to District 4. I must begin this Reaping with some disappointing news: I will not be returning next year as I have been offered the position of assistant commentator. I am sure you will all accept this, and I promise to think of you when I am speaking for Panem next year. Please think of me when you see me onscreen. I will remember the warmth and beauty of this District, and forever hold its tributes in a special corner of my heart."

I applaud with the rest, though unlike most of the rest I will actually miss her.

"I appreciate your acknowledgements," she continues, stilling the crowd with a motion of her bejeweled hand, "but this is the spotlight for our tributes, not for me, so I will now proceed with the lovely film our President deigns to show us every year on this day."

Right on cue, the documentary of the Rebellion begins to play, reminding us of everything that happened and yada-yada-yada, blah-blah-blah. I know this by heart. As the final note sounds, I smooth my hair away from my face, getting ready. Tilly moves toward the girl's bowl.

"I now prepare…"

"Wait," Del hisses in my ear. "you've got an eyelash stuck to your face."

"…to select the last female tribute I shall have the privilege of escorting." Her hand dips for the bowl.

Del finishes brushing the offending hair from my cheek.

"Thanks," I mutter.

"This year's tribute is Alyssa Monaghan."

A fifteen year old with chestnut ringlets, steps forward, looking around nervously for a volunteer. I don't move, toying with her for a moment as tears begin to well in her eyes. She thinks she's actually going to have to go.

Then I make my move. "I volunteer as tribute," I say, my words clipped and precise, as though I'm stating an obvious fact.

"Wonderful," Tilly beams. "I see my final year is going to be very pleasant. What's you're name, young lady?"

"Cyma Dolore," I proclaim, loud enough that the mic picks it up even though I'm still only halfway up the steps. "

"Panem, I give you Cyma Dolore!"

She gives me a moment in the spotlight, and I see my grandparents slowly clapping for me in the back of the crowd, their faces unreadable. Then she gets back down to business.

"I'm sure we're all eager to see her companion, so I'll waste no time in selecting our male representative of this lovely district." She walks to the male bowl, selecting a name. "Emarius Waler," she reads.

I see a movement in the boy's section, the sixteen year olds I think, but then a decisive voice announces: "I volunteer."

I look for the speaker and barely restrain a gasp. It's the boy I saw earlier. _Now_ how am I supposed to focus with prince charming following my every move?

He mounts the stage, walking up to the microphone and introducing himself to the world as Enzo Garrix. My eyes linger on him longer than they should before turning back to the sea of applause as Tilly announces our names. He extends his hand and I shake it. It is warm and strong, rough from work, probably on the docks.

Stop being such an idiot, I tell myself. You're a romantic fool Cyma. Only one of you can come back. Besides, you saw how he looked at that fisher girl.

Like she was Juliet or something.

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

All is quiet in the Justice Building, and it is actually colder inside than it was outside. Probably air conditioning, I think. I'm so used to it being hot out that the cool breeze actually annoys me a little. I don't handle cold very well. I hope the arena will be warm.

Bored, I stand up and move to the window. The water sparkles outside, and several seagulls glide in the breeze, but their cries are hidden from me by the thick pane. Pigeons peck at crumbs among the stones, taking to the air as a stray dog prowls into view. I will miss district Four, I think.

Then, farther down the beach, something silver glints, catching my eye, and I remember why I'm here. The weathervane atop Mags Cohen's house twirls lazily in the shifting breeze they ruffles the greenery planted in the Victor's Village. That's why I'm here.

To win, and to get Hazel the life she deserves.

Just then the doors swings open, and my mother and father come in. I'm their only child, and for a moment a pang of doubt assails me. Was it right for me to give them the possibility of living life without me?

But then my doubts are dispelled as my father wraps me into a hug, his sturdy arms making me feel safe, and secure in my decision.

"I'm so proud of you Enzo!" he says, He turns to mother. "Our boy's going to be the next victor, eh Emili?"

She nods, though her eyes are teary.

"Enzo my son," her voice is soft, like she's trying not to cry. "I wish you all the love ad power in the world. You are a true honor to us." She hugs me as well, and for a moment we stand, her tears wetting my shoulder even though she's smiling.

"You have a wonderful girl in Hazel," my father says. "She loves you Enzo. When you're in the Capitol, don't forget that."

I sense the warning in his words, but he needn't fear. I would never abandon my sea flower for some Capitol peacock.

"We'll let you say goodbye to her now," my mother says.

"One moment Emili," my father says. He pulls something small and silver from his pocket.

"You're lucky fishing hook!" I say in surprise.

"Correction: _You're_ lucky fishing hook," he tells me. "Where there is water, you'll never starve. Remember that. And don't hesitate to run if the alliance begins to crumble. You'll always be able to outrun the careers even if you can't outfight them. Goodbye Enzo, and good luck to you!"

They leave the room, and I tuck the fishing hook into the pocket of my blue shirt. It means a lot to me.

Then Hazel comes in and all else fades from my mind. She's blinking back tears, and as our eyes meet, her face crumples.

"Oh Enzo…"

Then she kisses me, ferociously almost. I'm surprised. Hazel has always been fairly reserved. That doesn't mean I don't respond in kind though. She looks me in the eye.

"You come back, Enzo Garrix. I don't want to be an old maid. If I am it'll be your fault, and I swear I'll haunt you even in heaven."

I have to laugh at that. That's my Hazel.

"Don't worry baby," I tell her. "I'll be back for dinner."

She smile, kissing me softly this time, before leaving the room. I can still smell her sweet scent on the air, like guava and coconut and sun and sand all rolled into one.

When she's a Victor's wife it might start a trend...

I laugh at the image of Capitol women trying to imitate the beauty of my mer-princess. They could never pull it off. No amount of spray-tan could give them her healthy glow, no amount synthetic oils her fresh smell.

Thinking about those things, I steel myself for the journey ahead. The Capitol's going to be a very different kettle of fish from District 4, yes indeedy.

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

I don't expect them to say goodbye, so when they come in, tears streaming down my grandmother's face, it's a shock.

She's crying as though she'll never stop, completely unhinged. "Cyma, oh Cyma, Cyma, Cyma!"

She throws herself onto me and hugs me.

The sight frightens me. They didn't care for me, and that made it easier for me to think that neutrality was normal, a necessary element of staying sane while going through life. I wasn't afraid of the Games because I wasn't afraid of death and I wasn't afraid to kill. Now I'm not so sure. I am always awkward around upset people, but I do my best to comfort her.

"It's alright, Nana," I say, patting her shoulder awkwardly. The word feels strange on my tongue. I have not called her that since my father died, when I was still simply their grandchild, not a young woman who reminded them of the daughter they had lost.

She gives another sob at the use of that name, then steps back, standing beside my grandfather. Her eyes are still wet, but they no longer look defeated.

They are determined.

"Here," she says, pulling something off her finger.

I gasp in surprise. It's her wedding ring.

"Your grandfather and I have talked it over, and we want you to have it. Will you wear it into the Arena?"

Her voice is tense and defensive, as though daring me to refuse.

"Of course I will," I say, my voice breaking slightly. And this time I'm the one that steps forward, pulling them both into my arms.

"I'm sorry Cyma, I'm so so sorry," my grandfather whispers. "We should have been grateful to have another daughter, not constantly comparing her to the one we lost. You have been a blessing, Cyma, even if it's taken us years to see it."

"Thank you grampa," I choke huskily. "Thank you."

When the peacekeepers come in they leave without a fight, but the hard band of metal in my palm, bearing a delicate imitation sapphire, reminds me that they are with me now.

When Delphina and Monica come in one at a time one, hugging me and wishing me luck, I thank them and try to show them that I will miss them, but my heart is not in it.

It is far away, wondering what might have been.

* * *

 **I *yay!* have finally gotten a blog up. All the tributes' pictures are posted there, so you'll get some sneak-peaks at some of our outer district contenders. The blog will be fleshed out and new features added once the Games begin. The link is on my profile. Be sure to let me know what you think!**


	7. Romance and Despair - District 5

**District 5 Reaping**

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

With one last twist I press the tight braid against my scalp, pinning it in place. My thick rope of black hair lies taught around my head like a crown, coiling behind my left ear. It gleams, still damp from my bath, and I think the effect is quite beguiling.

My mother has always said I will marry well, and since I inherited her dusky good looks I can't help but agree with her. It makes me happy, since I do not by any means want to continue living with my family once I am eighteen. My mother is a doctor, and I suppose her work is helpful and a blessing do our district, but it is not what I would have for myself. Colds I can handle, flu I can handle, but so many of the medical conditions in our district come from the unsafe working conditions, and are a lot nastier than a disease.

A hand crushed by the machinery in the dam, or a face disfigured by radiation poisoning are all it takes to send me flying from the room.

Sighing, I take my red rebozo from the hook where both mine and my mother's headscarfs hang and drape it over my head. The bright red makes my brown eyes glow bewitchingly, and my hair is still visible through the sheer muslin. Red has always been my favorite color. It is the color of passion, of love, the shade of the flames of ardor.

It seems to call to me, and I hope that it will have the same effect on some handsome merchant boy. There are several I have my eye on, but my father does not wish me to court anyone until I am sixteen, as I will not be allowed to marry anyway until I am eighteen.

The smell of my mother baking hits my nose, and I inhale deeply before leaving the bathroom and moving into the kitchen. The smells of butter and cinnamon lie heavy on the air, my mother must be making something special to eat when we come home from the Reaping.

I sigh at the thought of the Reaping. It is the dark time in an otherwise mostly happy existence for our district. It is always hard to know that, while you celebrate your own survival, two families will be grieving an imminent death.

A harsher smell begins to overlay the delightful baking scents, and I lunge for the oven, pulling it open. Sure enough, the coils of buttery pastry inside are dark around the edges, and a puff of steam scalds my face as I pull on a baking mitt and rescue the desserts.

Six times a year we eat these, spice melts my brother Carlos calls them. We have them on his birthday, my birthday, my sister Bess' birthday, and my mother and father's birthdays.

And, of course, on Reaping Day.

The thought sends a little shiver of anxiety through my stomach. Carlos turned twelve last month, so his name _could_ be picked today. I know it is unlikely, but all the same the worry is there. None of us have taken out tesserae, in fact few in our district ever need to, but his name will be there.

As will mine, three times. The odds are in our favor, but the odds _can_ lie.

My mother comes into the room, her skirt gathered into one hand as she runs in. She relaxes when she sees me setting the tray of spicemelts down on the counter.

"Gracias, Zita," she says. "They would have burned."

"Not on my watch, Mamà," I tell her, kissing her on the cheek. I step back and twirl, the scarlet skirt of my dress fanning out around me. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful, Zita," she says. "And you're helpful too. What man could say no, eh?"

"Sì," I agree. "What man indeed?"

My mother clucks at me. "Don't count your chickens, you aren't sixteen yet you know."

"Yes, I know. But what is the harm in a getting a head start? I can win his heart before I am sixteen, and then when I am old enough, he will already be in love with me, no?"

"Perhaps," she smiles.

Then my brother Carlos comes into the room. His dark curls are damp and his face fresh from a bath. His dark brown pants and red shirt, sown by my mother from the same cloth as my dress, make him cut a dashing figure indeed.

"Oh, you made spicemelts, Mamá," he says, reaching out a greedy hand.

I slap it away. "Don't be greedy, Carlos," I say.

"Oh Zita, let the boy have a piece."

I hadn't heard my father come into the room, but now that he is here his presence is impossible to miss.

"Alright, Papá," I say, "but I get one too."

"We all get one," he announces.

"Even me?" Bess squeaks. She was hiding behind him, and even now keeps a firm grip on his coattails, her other hand in her mouth.

"Even you, Bessie," I say, selecting one of the smaller ones from the tray and handing it to her. I pass the tray to my father and mother, and they each select one before handing it back to me. Carlos is already half-finished with his, predictably the biggest one.

I grab another off the tray and bite into it, the oil-soaked bread melting in my mouth and the cinnamon coating my tongue in fatty goodness. Our wall clock chimes a quarter after ten and we head for the door. The Reapings began at 9:00 in District 1, but my family rarely watches them. Then they are staggered every half-hour throughout the day. Our's is at 11:00, so we set out for the square, still munching the warm spicemelts.

* * *

 **Wyatt Foster, 16**

 **District 5 Male**

* * *

I trudge out the door and down the road, staring at the cobbles and occasionally kicking at the pebbles that litter the road. Our district is such a miserable little hovel.

They can't even pay to keep the roads maintained, much less make us happy.

It's absolutely depressing how bad this place is, and it's worse for me than anyone else.

The sun is hot, if it gets much hotter it'll probably blister my neck, and believe me it takes a lot of sun to do that. I've got such a dark tan I look like a District 11 apple picker. I've worked in Coriolanus 9, the massive solar power plant that lies to the right of the Justice Building, ever since I was eight years old and could carry a water bucket. They had me carry water from worker to worker, making sure nobody got heat stroke.

But what about _me_ getting heat stroke? Nobody ever worried about that did they? I never did get it, but at the very least they could have paid me some attention. I have enough people ignoring me or worse as it is.

Take my parents: When I was eight my mom nearly died having a baby that died anyway, and so they sent me to work to pay for her treatment. Didn't stop to worry how I felt about that, oh no, just sent me off. When she got better they were changed people, didn't hardly even talk to me anymore. I kept working and fed myself, but while I still live with my parents I'm really not their son.

I just sleep there.

As I trudge between the nondescript gray buildings that crowd Five more and more people join me in my march to the square, their faces lined with tension. Our district is swarming with people, sometimes it reminds me of an anthill. The worst part of it is that almost no one has tesserae, and I do. It's completely unfair that everyone but me and a few others are rich enough not to need tesserae, but they don't do a thing for those of us that do.

Sighing, I trudge wearily around the corner and into the wealthy part of town. Naturally, I don't live there, though practically ever eon _else_ does. I stoop down and pick up a rock, bouncing it idly in my palm as I trudge into the square and up to the sign-ins table.

The prick of the needle hardly registers, and none of the people in the crowd so much as look at me as I take my place with the other sixteen year old boys. I keep my head down, letting my reddish bangs fall into my eyes. Nobody takes any notice of me, and I ignore them right back. I doubt anyone in this district knows that I exist except the boy who's toe I stepped on while walking through the crowd, and he'll forget soon enough.

Sighing, I cross my arms, scratching the toe of my worn rubber boot in the dirt as I wait for the Reaping to commence.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

Turning a corner, I see bright orange hair standing out like a beacon above a white blouse as a girl walks down the street. I recognize her immediately. No one else has hair like Zinnia.

"Zinnia!" I call out, but with my mouth full of spicy goodness it sounds more like 'sheennya'.

She recognizes me anyway. "Zita!" her voice floats down the alley as she turns and reverses her steps.

I put out my arms and give her a hug, before tearing off a chunk of my spicemelt and handing it to her. Her eyes widen.

"Thanks!" she says, stuffing it into her mouth and closing her eyes in rapture.

I laugh. "Not bad, huh?"

She shakes her head. "Not bad! This is heaven on earth! Did you make them Zita?"

I shake my head regretfully. "I'm not that good yet," I say.

She laughs back. "You _are_ a good cook though," she says. "I'm skinny as is, but I'd be a regular stick-beetle without regular visits to your house."

We swing round the corner, still laughing and discussing boys, before entering the square.

Once we've signed in we go to our section, and I think for a moment the peacekeepers don't believe we're fifteen. Zinnia is skinny and nearly six feet already, and I'm tiny, barely five four. We look seventeen and thirteen, at least in height, though I'm curvier than some eighteen year olds. Mamá says that's a good thing, big hips make having children easier.

Once we're safely in, I take my finger out of my mouth from where I'd been sucking the tiny poke from the needle.

Tall blonde Cirra, my other best friend walks over, bubbly curly-haired Keisha and quiet Sunset trailing behind her.

"Gang's all here!" Cirra calls as she moves over, and we talk for several minutes before the escort, mayor, and victors come out. I'm staring at the victors and trying to remember how each of them won before Keisha nudges my arm.

"Look at Lucretia this year," she giggles.

I look up, and immediately choke back a laugh, my hand coming up to cover my mouth since laughing at the escort isn't a good idea. Her hair is fluffy and sparkly gold, her dress a bright sparkling yellow that matches a sun-shaped headpiece. Everything about her is yellow to the point that looking at her hurts my eyes. The only hint of another color is a tiny solar panel buried among the gold-dust drifts on her head.

I stare at her all throughout the video, occasionally bursting into fresh bouts of silent giggles. This is great, just great, what a priceless look, I think.

Then she moves to the microphone and I quickly sober up. I notice tears in Keisha's eyes; her cousin died in the Games two years ago and it's still really hard for her to see anything that reminds her of that. He was a really nice merchant boy too, and I'd even hoped that he might be the one…

"Ladies, gentlemen, people of District 5," she begins, "It has now been five years since the magnificent Quarter Quell, and that Quell was the last time District 5 made it to the final five. Hopefully, this year will finally break that streak. Who knows? Perhaps we'll even have a winner…"

She moves to the girls' bowl and pulls a slip.

"Zita Mor—" she begins, but then she stops, because someone has started to scream.

It's the loudest I've ever heard, and I try to look around and find the source, disoriented because I know that once the person stops she'll finish reading my name and I'll have to leave for the death Games and—and then I realize.

I'm the one screaming.

Keisha grabs me, putting her hand over my mouth, trying to calm me down. I push it off, but stop screaming, still sobbing wildly.

"Calm down," Keisha says, trying to guide me forward. "Just try Zita."

Almost by itself, my hand lashes out and I slap her. "No I can't!" I yell. "I'm going to die out there! Do you think I'm going to let—"

Before the very unflattering phrase describing the Capitol leaves my lips I feel someone take me by the arms. I'm crushed between the tall armored forms of two peacekeepers. It feels like tiny little me is being stifled between them. I hit them, but my arms are grasped tightly and the blows are very weak. I cry harder but stop shouting, knowing that if I say anything unflattering they'll slap me. I can feel the hot saltiness of tears running down my face and off my nose, dripping down my chin. I hiccup, hyperventilating.

The world starts to spin and as soon as the peacekeepers let go of me to let me climb the stairs I fall on my hands and knees and throw up, retching across their white boots. The taste of spice, now sour and acidic, reminds me of eating breakfast with my family, something I'll never do again. As my vision tunnels I am vaguely aware of being pulled to my feet and held there as my name echoes across the square. It sounds far away.

As hard as I try to surrender myself to the darkness, just wanting to get away, my brain refuses to go down and pulls me back to consciousness, still shaking and crying but too tired for my sobs to be audible.

The escort moves to the boys bowl and new sadness runs through me, adrenaline making me cry louder. Someone else is going to die too, someone else is going to die with me…the escort has to shout the name over my sobbing.

The peacekeeper pushes me around to face my district partner and I shake his hand numbly. I didn't even catch his name. He rolls his eyes, keeping me at arm's length. No wonder, since I probably smell like vomit.

Oh God, I'm going to die.

* * *

 **Wyatt Foster, 16**

 **District 5 Male**

* * *

"Wyatt Foster," the escort shouts over the desperate sobs of the girl, Zita her name was.

My name. Predictable. Sucks to be me.

I walk forward and trudge up the stairs. Peacekeepers jump forward, probably expecting a display like the girls', but they're wasting their time. I've long ago learned that crying and screaming doesn't make pain go away.

I'll just eat as much chocolate as I can on the train and then die, I guess.

The idea of chocolate rapidly leaves my mind as I'm forced to shake hands with the girl, despite the fact that her entire body and expensive-looking dress are coated in vomit. At least she's a merchant girl, all those airheads deserve to get reaped. Maybe I can enjoy watching her dying like a sideshow freak before I go myself.

Lucretia announces our names and I'm dragged off to the Justice Building.

Unsurprisingly, no one comes to visit me.

Who would anyway?

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

The peacekeepers dump me unceremoniously on a chair and leave me to my own devices. I put my head in my smeary hands and cry. I probably look a mess but I don't care. They clean up bodies before they bury them, and that's what I'll be the next time my district sees me.

The door opens and my family, followed by Zinnia and the gang barge in. They all hug me, pat my back, whisper encouragement and everything else but I just can't stop crying.

It's an intense act of will just to raise my head, but I do it and look out at them. They're all crying, and Zinnia pulls a gold pin, shaped like a sun, from her shirt.

"Wear it into the arena, Zita," she says.

I shake my head. "I'm already wearing Mamá's scarf," I sob, voice shaking.

Zinnia sighs, but pulls a scrap of fabric from the hem of her blouse and ties it to the thin cloth of the my scarf. Wordlessly, the others do the same. I cry harder as Mamá fastens a piece of pale gold muslin from her scarf onto mine.

"Try to come back, Zita," Keisha says. "Please, at least try."

"I can't," I say. "There's no way." I shake helplessly.

They all look at me. "Just try, at least try, Zita," they each say.

I sniff. "Alright," I say, "Sì, I will try…"

My voice trails off and they all wrap me into their arms again, assuring me that I'll be fine. But I won't be. I'll never bake spicemelts for a handsome merchant boy, or bear my mother grandchildren.

My life is over.


	8. Prankster and Witness - District 6

**District 6 Reaping**

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

"Wow!" Tessi says. "It's huge!"

"I know," I agree, staring at the massive silver train. Every year when the tribute train rolls into District 6, my friends and I have to go admire it. It always demonstrates the latest of transportation technology and Capitol flair. If we can ignore the fact that two kids, probably not ones I know considering our District's population, but still kids, will be riding out on this train within three hours.

Riding to their deaths.

I push the uncomfortable thought out of my mind. Pretend none of it exists, I tell myself. After all, it never has really existed for me. I never watch the games, and I've never known a person that got Reaped either. I live in the main city of District 6, where the square is and the Reapings are, so thankfully I haven't had to spend the last two days packing myself onto a train to get here for the Reaping. I've only ever ridden on a train once; my mom's a conductor and took me with her once to see if it was something I'm interested in.

It really isn't. Tessi, my best friend, is a stoker for the engines of some of the freight trains. It's a lower paying job and doesn't carry much prestige, but I'd rather do that than be a conductor. My long blonde hair and slim-to-the-point-of-being-slightly-underfed body would almost surely net me a job, since half the work of a female conductor is being eye-candy for wealthy Capitolites. They're the only ones that travel anyway. I'm sorry mom, but my people skills are non-existent so no blue suit and shiny brass buttons for me.

I'd rather have the ash and dust, but also endless camaraderie and ability _to travel to other districts_ of a simple stoker. Tessi says there's trees in District 7 like you wouldn't believe. I've only ever been in a tree once, and that was to rig up a noose trap for an old wierdo that lives in the alley behind Tessi's house. Tessi's mom says he's a morphling addict and we should keep away from him.

Well, since nobody likes him he's the ideal one for me to yank off his feet with a rope and leave hanging.

Jokes are my specialty. Water buckets over the front door, oiling the floor of the bathtub, twitch-ups that leave you hanging from a tree…you name it, I've done it.

"What do you think it's made of?" Tessi asks, pulling me from my scheming.

"I don't know, you're the expert, you tell me," I say quickly.

She frowns. "It's definitely sleek," she begins. "It almost looks like glass. It could be a glass and plastic combination of some sort. That's what it _looks_ like. Either way, it's much fancier than the lumber train, or even the usual passenger trains."

Just then the clock strikes 11:00, warning me that the Reaping is in half an hour.

"We better get a move on," I say.

She takes off down the street and after only a few blocks I'm puffing to catch up. "Not _that_ fast Tess," I yell, panting. "Seriously, slow down!"

Laughing she does so, and I catch up to her. I halt, still breathing heavily.

"You wimp," she says. "But fine, I'll walk."

Moving at a more sedate pace, we continue toward the square.

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

I walk slowly down the street, wishing Meldin lived closer. He and I have been working on an idea for a more aerodynamic plane wing that we think could be fitted to a hovercraft, and it's almost ready for us to make public. If only we had more time to work on it!

Instead, we have to squeeze in little conferences after work gets out at the factory, since he catches the subway home to where he lives on the fringe of the District at 7:00. Since his shift only gets out at 5:45, that doesn't give us much time. I'm positive this wing is the ticket to a richer life for him and a big name for me. I already have plenty of money since my mom owns a small freight line, but Meldin could really use the cash. His da walked out on his ma when he was little, so he's the provider in his family.

He's also signed up for tesserae, and I can't help but worry about him. I mean, his name is in the Reaping like fifty times.

Still worrying, I turn down a street corner and immediately freeze. Two shadowy figures stand in the alley, one passing something to another. A laugh floats down. I realize immediately what I'm seeing: It's a drug deal. Some poor addict is being preyed upon for all their cash in exchange for morphling.

The 'poor addict' that took the object begins to speak, his voice rising in anger. I slide back against the wall, hiding in the shadows behind a dumpster. I stare in horror as the addict suddenly lunges for the other, wrapping grimy hands around his throat. The man gives a choked cry and falls back, striking the wall of the alley hard.

The snap of his neck breaking is audible from where I sit.

The addict rifles through the pockets of the body, pulling out a quantity of what I assume are drugs.

The urge to run lands on me and I leap up, dashing blindly away, only wanting to move as far from that alley as possible. My breath comes in gasps. I just witnessed a murder!

As I turn to run, my foot lands on a glass bottle sitting beside the dumpster. It shatters.

And the addict turns and sees me.

"What'd you see, boy?" he hollers. "You ain't seen nothin. Understand me?"

I just keep running and then hear the sound of pursuing footsteps. Sobbing for air, I dart round a corner, feet pounding on the tiles. I know he'll catch me, since I'm better fed and less exercised then I should be. His feet sound just behind me and then glory of glories I realize where I am. One more turn and I'll be on the main thoroughfare, then somebody will help me. I reach the turn—

And a grimy hand claps itself over my mouth, cutting off my cry for help midnote. I struggle, but its useless. The hand holds me fast. I can smell foul breath on my face.

"You saw nothing," the voice says. "Absolutely nothing. You squeal on me and I'll kill you, I swear I will. Don't think I can't find you fat boy. You hear me? Answer!"

He shakes me and I snap back and forth, eyes wide with fear. I nod yes, terrified of this man. Slowly, he removes his hand from my mouth and I gag, crying and panting at the same time.

"Not a word, I swear," I say. "Just let me go."

He grins, and I can see his rotten teeth. "Remember, not a word." Then he vanishes into the alley.

At first I don't understand why he didn't kill me, but then I hear footsteps coming closer and realize someone must have heard me cry out before he caught me. He couldn't kill me then, or he'd be found.

"Is everything alright?" It's a girl's voice, soft-sounding and almost naive.

Hastily, I dash the tears from my eyes and put on a smile. No need to put her in danger.

"Yeah, everything's fine," I say. "I tripped and fell. Made me call out. Nothing to worry about."

She smiles, her dark curls bouncing. Another girl, small and slim with long blonde hair runs up behind.

"What are you doing, Tessi?" she asks.

"Nothing," she answers. "Just checking in on a noise I heard. This big fella slipped in puddle."

I feel my ears redden as the blonde smiles. "I better be going," I stammer quickly, beating a hasty retreat. The flow of the crowd headed for the square quickly envelopes me, dragging me along to the square.

It's only big enough for the kids, a good 350,000 strong, that flood our District. The 250,000 or so adults will stand in the streets nearby, watching the Reaping on the giant screens. Then they'll know if it's one of their kids gets reaped, and have time to say goodbye.

I sign in and hurry to my section, looking for Meldin. Against all odds I find him, standing near the back of the section. I can spot his thick glasses and red hair from here. I walk up behind him, preparing to startle him, but I accidentally step on the toe of another boy.

"Hey," he calls angrily, "watch where you're going!"

I mutter a hasty apology, but Meldin has already turned toward the noise and spotted me.

"Hey Hunter," he calls, waving his skinny arm.

He's wearing a white t-shirt and jeans that hang loosely on his underfed body. I know for a fact that he gives most of his share of food to his mother and younger sisters. He won't accept charity, so there's not really much I can do to help him, short of design that new wing.

He looks excited, so I walk quickly over, careful not to step on another toe, trip over my own feet, or something equally stupid. He starts spewing mathematical equations before I'm even halfway there, and I have to ask him to slow down and repeat what he said.

He does, and my face widens into a huge smile. I'm pretty sure he just worked out the last component for our design, one that's been bothering us for weeks. Maybe tomorrow we can draw up the blueprints, and then the next day we'll—

Either way, we're on the road to success.

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

I rub absently at my finger, pressing on the sore spot where the needle went in. I wish the Capitol would just trust us to give them our real names or assign us ID cards or something. Instead they've got to take blood samples and verify my DNA for goodness' sake!

I've tried and tried to think of a way to trick the system for a joke though, and I simply can't, so I guess the system _is_ airtight and foolproof, which is what they're going for. I push my hair out of my face and tap my foot, listening idly to the chatter of Tessi and our other friends. We've got one of the biggest cliques at the school, but sometimes I tire of hearing about boys, jobs, and family issues, the most common topics of conversation. There are so many more interesting conversations than whose dad got laid off when.

I can trust the girls, but the plain fact is that my mom has a good, steady job and so does my dad. I don't need to worry about work until I graduate, and that's still a year away.

The Capitol anthem blares from the speakers that surround the square, and the massive screens along the sides light up as Prunella Pimpernel takes the stage. Resplendent in purple hair and a flashy, strappy gold gown with ridiculously heeled sandals, eyes matching her hair and gold teeth inlays flashing, she strides to the microphone.

"Hellllllllllloooooooo District 6!" she yells. "Ready to have some fun?"

I bellow the obligatory roar of 'yes' with the rest of the crowd.

"Great!" she hollers back. "We're just gonna watch this little video and then we can get to the good stuff."

She clicks the remote and the reel begins. Shots of violent war footage alternate with soaring Capitol buildings and gleaming hovercraft. Our mayor stands behind Prunella, beaming beatifically since he really doesn't have any other part in the Reaping. With a parting shot of our young President Snow smiling like a benevolent snake, the video ends.

"Thank you all for your attention!" Prunella says. "Now, girls, girls, girls, get ready! _You_ could be the lucky one."

She moves her hand to the Reaping bowl and stirs around, selecting a slip from near the bottom. "Venna Wilcox," she announces. "Come on, Venna! Let's see your face."

 _Venna?_ But that's me, I think. _How?_ I don't have any tesserae, none, zero. Rich kids don't get reaped. They just don't.

 _You_ just did, another part of my brain responds. I know I can't go into these games. I'll die, and that is _not_ happening. I have to run.

I force my feet to respond, heading for the exit in a mad dash. I almost make it, too, before sturdy arms wrap around me and pull me around, gripping me painfully at tugging at the ends of my hair. I am marched relentlessly to the stage, and, glaring, climb the steps. I feel like sticking my tongue out at the whole world. There's got to be some mistake.

But Prunella welcome's me to the stage and prepares to select the male tribute, so I know.

There is no mistake.

I am going into the arena.

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

Poor kid, I think.

It's the friend of the girl that tried to help me, the blonde one. Wouldn't you know it's always the best ones that get it. She looks lost up there, and I can relate to her fear, since I'm feeling it too. I'm not going to the death Games, but my life _was_ threatened today and somehow I don't think I'm safe. I feel like curling up in a ball and hiding under the stage, not crawling out until I grow a beard and can't be recognized.

I'm just as hapless as whoever's about to get pulled; as whatever unfortunate boy accompanies Venna to her death.

Then Prunella draws the name, and it's Meldin Reynard.

No, I think, they can't do that! Meldin has a family to care for! Before I know it, I'm shouting the words as my best friend walks toward the stage.

And then I hear it, in the front of the crowd, the thirteen year old girls' section. "No!"

The scream is high pitched and desperate. "Meldin!"

It's Tristina, his little sister, and as I watch she turns toward the boys' side, pleading, her face a mask of tears and terror.

"Please!" she shrieks. "Somebody! Volunteer for him, PLEASE! HELP!"

She dissolves into sobs as peacekeepers subdue her, but her eyes still beg the crowd for help. They'll starve without Meldin, that's for sure.

And then I know what I have to do. "I volunteer," I shout, or at least attempt to shout, but it comes out as a harsh squeak. I step forward and move toward the stage. "I volunteer!" I yell, and this time it echoes across the square.

Meldin looks out, trying to spot his savior, then he sees me and his eyes widen. Then he begins to cry, his shoulders shaking silently. Slowly, he walks down form the stage and falls into Tristina's arms, as she hugs him and sobs into his shirt. Looking up from her, he stares me in the eye, reaches out, and squeezes my hand.

"Thank you, Hunter," he says, his voice barely audible. He hugs Tristina tighter. "Thank you. You have given us hope."

"Hey, put my name on the patent for that wing," I say.

He smiles and starts to answer, but then the irritable voice of Prunella interrupts.

"Young man, are you volunteering or not?" she asks testily, her voice severe.

I scramble up the steps, stumbling over my own feet in the process. Now that I'm up here all alone I no longer feel heroic, just very very frightened and even a little stupid. Why did I do that?

"Yes, yes I am," I say, my words tumbling over one another.

"And what's your name?" she fires at me, barely giving me time to finish my original answer.

"Hunter. Hunter Robinson, ma'am." _Oops,_ I think. Ma'am? That sounded ridiculous. Well, maybe it'll sound quaint to the Capitol.

She announces our names, recovering the showmanship of the event that had been lost in Tristina's hysterics. Then I'm led into the Justice Building, numbness setting in. Why oh why did I do that? What madness was on me?

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

Wow is all I can think when I step inside the gaping doors of the Justice Building, marching like a prisoner between two rows of peacekeepers. I've never been inside the Justice Building before, and it is grand beyond all expectations. The floors are polished, if a little worn, and gleam in the multicolored light filtering through a stain-glassed dome. Capitol flags adorn the walls, as well as posters of past victors. Everything is coated in a thin pall of dust, and little motes of the stuff swirl up beneath my feet.

It is beautiful and old, built long before the Dark Days. We ascend a flight of stairs and enter a corridor, with many intricately carved doors hiding secrets from prying eyes. One of these doors stands ajar and my guards lead me through, shutting the door behind me. It must be time for the goodbyes, I think. I walk to the window and look out, saying a goodbye to the district that raised me. I never realized how much it was home until today, I think, looking down at the drab gray buildings and mazes of streets below. It is goodbye, because I don't see how I could possibly come back.

A tear slips down my face and I put my palm against the glass. Already I am caged, and I haven't even boarded the train. The glass is warm against my hand, and I remember standing under the sun this morning, staring at the train that would take a child to their death.

I never dreamed it would be me.

I don't even watch the games.

All I can do that might help me is my pranking, I might be able to translate that knowledge to trap-building.

The door opens and my family enters, I turn, my eyes dull with hopelessness. My lip quivers and I fall into their arms, crying silently.

"How can I ever win?" I say. "It's impossible."

"No," dad says, "just improbable. You're hard to catch. Lissen, remember how hard it was to ground her?"

My mother nods, biting her lip. "Hard," she says.

I giggle a little in spite of myself. "Okay," I take a deep breath. "Never say never."

"That's my girl," mom says.

"I'll kill the careers with water balloons," I say. "Drown 'em."

My father laughs, but both his and mom's eyes are brimming with barely suppressed tears. "We'll try to send you some," he tells me. "How much does sending water balloons cost, Lissen, do you know?"

My mother shakes her head, pretending to be perplexed.

I can see right through their attempt to cheer me up, but it helps all the same.

When their time is up I'm feeling much more confident. My odds for victory are limited, but they do exist.

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

"What were you thinking?" mom says, before the door has even closed behind her. "Were you mad?"

The fact that I've spent the last ten minutes asking myself those very questions doesn't make it any better.

"I couldn't let him die, mom," I shout, my eyes flooding with tears. "I don't know why I did it myself, but I did and that's all there is to it."

I turn my back to them, too upset to care that my anger is totally irrational. Their questions are completely legitimate.

"Hunter," my father says, laying a big hand on my shoulder and turning me to face him. "I understand."

My eyes widen. That means a lot to me, considering the fact that he's usually holed up in his office working on paperwork—he manages finances for mom's rail line—and I rarely see him. An affirmation from him seems to set me aglow.

"You do?" I respond. It's all I can think to say.

"He's your friend. Friends look out for one another. Hunter, please try to come back, but know that if you can't, we'll look out for Meldin's family. And we'll help him with the wing design."

My eyes widen further. "You know about that?"

Mom smiles a watery smile. "Of course. I love you Hunter and I do try to pay you attention, I'm just really busy a lot of the time."

Hesitantly, a smile crosses my face. "Thanks," I say, "for everything."

"We're not done yet," Dad smiles. "Here."

He hands me a pen, silver and with his name engraved on it. Mom pulls her earring, shaped like a tiny train, from her ear. Then she twists the wire around the pen.

"Your token," she says. "Rememberance of home. Of what your fighting for."

I take the pen, then hug them each in turn. Then our time is up and the peacekeepers escort them from the door. With one last sniff and a wavering smile, mom and dad are gone.

Then Meldin comes in. He looks too distraught to talk, but that assumption is quickly proven wrong when a torrent of words flow from his mouth.

"I'm sorry Hunter," he cries. "I never told Tristina to do anything like that. You didnt have to do it for me, you didn't! I—"

I cut him off. "I did it, Meldin. What's done is done. I'm happy to give you a chance. Mom says she'll present our design, and that if you guys need anything—"

"Stop!" Meldin cuts me off furiously. "That's what you don't seem to understand. I don't need people hurting themselves for me!"

I look him in the eye, for once in my life knowing just what to say. "Meldin," I ask softly, "would you let yourself be hurt for Tristina?"

"Of course!" he says fervently. "I'd die for her! I'd—"

Then he realizes what he just said, and opens his mouth to contradict it.

"Meldin, I'm telling you right now I'd die for you. Don't rob me of my sacrifice. Take care of your sister. Live."

He bows his head, nodding slightly, his eyes closing and a tear slowly tracing its way down his cheek.

I know I did the right thing.


	9. Family and Fear - District 7

**District 7 Reaping**

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

I huddle behind the hanging rows of dresses in my closet, clutching Willow so tight that she gives an irritated meow of protest. I barely notice, so caught up am I in the angry sounds emanating from the kitchen. My step-father is drunker today then I've ever seen him, he seems to get worse every year. Since it's reaping day he has all day to get drunk instead of just the evening, and he's making the most of the opportunity. He's been like this ever since I was twelve and he got his new job at the mill. Before that it was just occasional, he'd come home tipsy but settle down after a day or two. Once he had the new job, there was no stopping him. He could spend whatever he wanted on beer.

He never gets violent, but the amount of money he literally dumps down his throat means we haven't got enough for necessities, and I've had to take out tesserae. That scares me. Mom needs me, and Keegan needs me even more. Keegan's my half-brother—my birth dad got sick and died right after I was born—and he isn't right in the head. He'll do things like holler in the middle of class, or pull off his clothes in public, and he really can't talk much at all. He won't wear his glasses either, and it's a marvel he can recognize me at all. Mom worked at the hospital for a long time 'til she got laid off, and she says he ought to be blind without the glasses.

Another shattering sound comes from the kitchen, and I cringe. I haven't dared go in there all morning, not even for breakfast, and I'm starving.

Gradually the sounds go down and I uncurl myself cautiously. Willow takes advantage of my sudden relaxation and leaps from my arms, scuttling out the door. I push the closet door the rest of the way open and peep outside. The hall is empty, no sign even of my young tabby cat, and I walk carefully down, smoothing my heather gray dress down. I would be cold in the damp hall, but thick black leggings keep that at bay. My toes however take the full force of the chill.

District 7 is always damp and chilly, and even in the summer it rains frequently. Today is one of those days, and the air is thick, damp, and with a slight note of frigidity. I open the kitchen door and go in, flinching slightly when I see my father still sitting there. Mother moves among an assortment of pans on the burner, and I can see that her shoulders are slumped and tired, wispy streaks of frizzy brown hair escaping from her bun. Keegan lies snoring under the table, sucking his thumb. For an eight year old, he looks uncannily young. I can't help but soften a little at the sight of him. Then my father speaks and I instantly stiffen.

"What are you doing, Emmett?" he asks, his words slurring together.

Wrath blazes up inside me at his patronizing tone. It was my real father who worked to buy this house, and he has no right to make it sound like I'm a fungus that doesn't belong here. "It was Kim's house, my _father's_ house, not yours," I say coldly. "I have as much right to be here as you, if not more."

I know that that was the wrong thing to say, but I don't care. I take out some of my anger and fear over the approaching games on him, my words venomous.

"Spitfire," he mocks. "try and show some respect…if you can even comprehend that word. Probably can't. Kim McLean never could."

I see my mother flinch, and that's enough to make me snap. "Don't you dare insult my father!" I blaze. "He was twice the man you are. He _cared_ for us. Didn't drown his tiny brain in barley suds. You're a beast compared to him."

I hardly remember my real father, but from the way mother's eyes look when she's remembering him I know all this is true, that he was a much better man than Scott Schmitt ever will be. Mother thought she was doing something good by marrying Scott Schmitt. She thought she was giving me a new father. She didn't realize he would be a monster. She's even told me she wishes she could leave him, but my job and tesserae wouldn't be enough to support the family, and mom has to stay home to take care of Keegan. As awful as he is, we need Scott.

My not-father stands up, his face mottled with anger. "Wildcat," he spits. "Don't you dare speak to me that way."

"I dare and do," I say. "You're a monster."

At that he smiles, taking another swig from the half-empty bottle in his hand. "I've never hit you," he says. His smile is very self satisfied.

The horrible thing is that he really believes that. He really believes that unless he hits us he is a good person. My hands ball into fists as I completely loose it, prepared to scream every insult I can think of in his smug, beery face, but then I hear the door open and a familiar voice calls my name.

"Emmett?" Is everything okay?"

Immediately my body relaxes. "Luke?" I call. "I'm fine. Come on in."

With Luke here I'll have some moral support in case the yelling starts again. He comes in the door, his dark brown eyes concerned. I've known him well since I was twelve, and somewhere between fourteen and fifteen that friendship slid easily into courting. When I get emotional his strong arms are there to pull me back to reality, ever ready with a hug or pat on the back. There are no secrets between us, and he knows what my home life is like, so I'm not surprised he's concerned.

Just then Keegan wakes up, his thumb pulling from his mouth with a sucking sound. "Uncle Lyook," he calls, doing his best to pronounce my boyfriend's name.

Technically if we marry they'll be brothers-in-law, but at eighteen Luke is so much older that Keegan calls him uncle. Luke understands Keegan better than anyone except maybe mom. I fantasize that if we marry maybe we could adopt Keegan. With Luke's income and mine combined, mom could move in with us and I'd never have to worry about Scott Schmitt again.

"Hey Keegan," Luke says, spreading his arms with a smile.

Keegan leaps triumphantly into them, putting his thumb back in his mouth and twisting his other hand into Luke's dark curls.

Luke bounces him up and down as Keegan squeals exuberantly, then turns to me. "You about ready to go Emmett?" he asks. "The Reaping's in less than an hour."

I nod. "Almost," I say. "I need to grab a bite to eat and braid my hair."

"I can help you with that honey," mom says, setting down the pan she was scrubbing and drying her hands on her apron.

"Thanks," I say, pulling up a stool and sitting down in front of her.

She hands me a chunk of bread with a thin slice of bacon on it, cheese melted over the top of both. Then she gets to work.

My hair is already brushed and she twists the hair on either side of my face into two thin braids, drawing them together in the back and tying them with a piece of pale gray lace. The braids are slightly frizzy, a byproduct of District 7 humidity. It's always funny to me that my hair frizzes when my lips seem permanently chapped.

Standing up, I shove the last bite of bread into my mouth, smearing a little of the oil from the cheese across my lips to combat the dryness.

Then I give my mom a hug and thank her, before turning back to Luke.

Out the corner of my eye I see that my father is snoring on the table, a thin stream of drool trailing from his open mouth. Mom pulls her worn coat over her shoulders, preparing to follow us out the door. Luke pulls Keegan higher on his hip, waiting for me as I stop to lace up my boots. They're the only shoes I have, and the heavy leather with its spiked soles for climbing looks out of place paired with my crisp black leggings and gray dress. Usually I wear a flannel shirt and jeans, with my hair braided back. With the fancier clothes and hair down, I feel funny, almost overdressed.

Ready to go, I follow my mother out the door while Luke holds it open for us with his free hand. The door shuts behind us, and we start walking briskly down the street. A thin mist is falling, and even though it's at least 65 degrees outside the wet makes me shiver.

We march over the slick cobbles when suddenly running feet splash along the stones behind us. We turn, and see my father sloshing unsteadily after us. He's only wearing one shoe, and his hair is messy, his face unshaven.

"Wait for me," he slurs, tottering up behind us.

I turn away, rolling my eyes. For a moment I'd almost hoped to spend an hour untainted by beery fumes with just me and my real family,.

* * *

 **Phoenix Hemlock, 18**

 **District 7 Male**

* * *

I pace back and forth like a caged tiger, keeping my face a stony mask despite the pain that tears my leg at every step. Curse this District, and curse the peacekeepers, and curse the Capitol and curse—

A key grates in the lock of my cell - one of the high security ones I'm satisfied to say, reveling in their fear of me - and a peacekeeper opens the door. He is broad shouldered and sturdy, and I know at a glance that with my hands cuffed there's no way I can take him. If I had my axe it would be another matter, and I mentally watch the replays of some of the solid blows I've landed to white-helmeted skulls with that very weapon.

Brained and bleeding peacekeepers are so much better than living ones.

There's a young girl in uniform standing beside him with a stun baton, and she looks nervous. Probably a new recruit. I give her a threatening stare and am rewarded with a flicker of uncertain fear in her blue eyes.

My hatred of all living things runs through my very being. I am hate itself, and I revel in it. I never knew my parents, and the Capitol home that I lived in until I was twelve treated me worse than dirt. The workers ate half our share of the food and took half our pay, and they fully deserved it when I was finally old enough to run.

And run I did. The night after that the orphanage burned down, and believe me it was no coincidence. After that I had to lie low and I lost my job. There wasn't any other way to feed myself so I took to stealing. It was no more than the district deserved, they should have helped me willingly when they had the chance.

It wasn't my fault that I was caught in the act one night and had to strangle the discoverer to keep him quiet, and it wasn't my fault when I killed two more with axes when they stumbled upon me. On the contrary, it _was_ my fault and I'm proud of it when peacekeepers started being found with their heads stove in. They deserved it, fully and absolutely. The whole world deserves to suffer as much as I did.

I will have an excellent chance to make that happen in the Games. I already know I'm going, the peacekeepers were too lazy to kill me themselves so they told me I could volunteer for the death games instead. Everyone thinks I'm sadistic, and psychos always make the games more interesting, that's probably why they want me there. Believe me though, they'll never let me win.

That's a fact I've accepted, and I'll just make the most of it while it lasts.

If I wanted to escape the games I should've been more careful and not let myself get found and shot. With my leg messed up there wasn't anywhere to run. _That_ was the time to escape, and it's too late now.

Now all I can do is enjoy things while they last.

I'll make their little Games very interesting indeed.

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

I suppress a shudder as the needle pierces my finger and a drop of blood lands on the paper. The peacekeeper signing people in waves me through, and I sigh with relief, sticking my finger in my mouth so I don't have to see the blood anymore. Needles and wounds give me the heebie jeebies.

I part ways from my family and Luke, watching as his broad shoulders disappear into the boys' section.

Then I find Winnie, one of my two best friends, and go and stand next to her with the other sixteen year olds. My other best friend is Jo, and they are as different as night and day. Winnie is sweet, quiet, and prone to panic attacks, just like I am. Jo is a tough girl, closed off to everyone but me, independent and out there. It's funny because she's seventeen but only 5'3", a good two inches shorter than I am. It's always great too when somebody underestimates her because of her size and tries to mess with her. They usually end up with a real earful!

The girls compliment my two sides of personality, though unfortunately they don't do well in the same room. This works out since I mostly see Winnie on the weekends when she isn't watching her brothers and sisters, whereas Jo and I work on the same lumber team. That way they don't have to be close to one another but I can still see them frequently.

I wave to a couple girls from my class in school, Cedar and Sequoia, then turn to Winnie.

She is staring straight ahead, her hands clenching and unclenching.

"Nervous?" I ask. Winnie has several tesserae, so I wouldn't be surprised if she's as scared as I am, maybe more since I've got more practice toughing things out.

She glances toward me. "A little," she admits. Then her voice starts to shake as her facade crumbles. "Alright, I'm terrified," she says in a lower voice. Her dark blonde curls quiver as she trembles, "I'd be crazy not to be."

"I know," I say, my own heart twisting a little the way it does whenever I think about the Games. They are barbaric, designed for torture, not the entertainment our lying government says they are. There's nothing I can do though, I simply play along. I'm pretty sure its no coincidence that kids who speak out, or whose parents speak out, tend to end up going in. I _have_ to stay silent, because if I am reaped, then where will Keegan and my mother be?

Breaking me from my morbid imaginings is the arrival of our mayor, Clarisse Woodstock. Her curly hair hangs around her cheeks where the shortest pieces have escaped from her bun, but they fail to soften the harshness of her square cheekbones and icy blue eyes. She is a woman not to be trifled with.

In a voice that says she means it she reads the Treaty of Treason, before introducing our escort.

She's new, a woman I've never seen before. She's also obviously trying way to hard to look like she belongs in District 7. Her hair is dark green and sprayed with white in a grossly artificial imitation of frosted fir needles. A few pinecones nestle among the spiky twists of green, and her makeup is green, brown, and over the top. The colors may be natural, but her look is not. Not at all.

She plays the Capitol propaganda video for us, as if the Treaty of Treason wasn't enough lies for the day, then walks over to the girls Reaping Bowl, booted feet clacking on the planking of the stage. The mist that plagued the earlier part of the day has stopped, and everything is slick and slimy with moisture, making her impeccable self only look more out of place.

"Pistillates first," she says, moving toward the slips.

She seems to expect some sort of reaction, and pauses as though waiting for an acknowledgment. Realizing after several seconds that no reaction is forthcoming, she looks out at the crowd, frowning confusedly.

"Did I pronounce that right?" she asks. Her voice is unsure.

Nobody answers and a thin blush slowly becomes visible underneath her makeup. She's _definitely_ new to this. Trying to hard to fit in. Now thoroughly flustered, she tries again.

"Pistillates," she says. "Isn't that the female part of a flower? On trees? You know, when trees want to make a baby tree, and the pollen…"

Her face gets redder and her words more incoherent as she trails off. The whole district bursts out laughing.

Pistillates are a part of a willow catkin, considered to be the female flower, while stamens are the males. The escort, Orlisia I believe her name was, definitely made that a stretch. I think she was trying to say 'ladies first' in some sort of forest lingo. Sorry to burst your bubble, Capitol girl, but we don't call girls the female name for tree buds.

I'm laughing along with the rest when she steps up to the bowl and grabs a name, trying to bring the situation back under control.

"Emmett McLean," she reads, her voice still quavering with embarrassment.

Oh God. My name.

"Emmett? Is that even a girls' name? I'm sorry, is there some mistake?" she asks, seeing that no one is stepping forward.

"It's mine," I manage to rasp just loud enough for her to hear, stepping forward more stiffly than an oak tree trying to walk.

"Oh," Orlisia smiles. "I'm glad that's alright then. Come on up, dearie."

There's an almost kind note to her voice, but it's lost on me as I fight desperately against the urge to panic. My eyes well up, and I hold the tears desperately in, staring fixedly at a point of stone beside the 'd' in Justice Building.

Setting my face, I climb to the stage and stare woodenly out across the crowd as Orlisia moves toward the boys' bowl.

At least she isn't saying 'stamens second.'

* * *

 **Phoenix Hemlock, 18**

 **District 7 Male**

* * *

My district partner doesn't strike me as anything special as she mounts the stage. Her eyes well up but she fights it back, playing for the cameras. She should be easy meat.

The ridiculous escort moves toward the boys' bowl, her face still red from her unbelievably stupid attempt to sound like she knew about trees. I already know that I'll be volunteering, so I shift my weight onto my good leg, totally relaxed between my two guards. Hopefully my leg will be fully healed by the time I go into the arena.

Despite the fact that I know I won't be allowed to win, they want a show and I'll need to be healthy to give it to them. That's probably why they tended my leg at all in the first place, otherwise they probably just would've let it rot. Save them the waste of another bullet on killing me.

The walking tree dips her hand into the bowl and pulls a name.

"Tannin Rawls."

A fifteen year old boy starts to move forward, tears welling in his eyes as his friends urge him toward the stage.

Lazily, I step forward. "I volunteer," I say, my voice deep in the silent square.

The crowd looks around to see this volunteer, but then they see me as I mount the stage between my two guards and the grateful exclamations running through the assembly turn to frightened murmurs, and a few cries of outrage.

They must recognize me, after all my name graces almost every wall in Seven, plastered on wanted posters all across the district. I shake hands with my district partner, and seeing that she's still a little unhinged I decide to have a bit of fun. I squeeze her hand hard and her face goes white, then I stare deep into her eyes with my best look of cold disdain, while flashing the most fearful sinister smile I can muster.

I hear her breath catch in her nose and her hand begins to shake as she releases mine quickly. Then the escort finishes announcing our names and she leaves to enter the Justice Building. As she walks in the door she shoots a nervous glance over her shoulder, and I wave slightly. Then she practically bolts inside.

Since I don't have anyone to say goodbye, and the peacekeepers wouldn't risk leaving me alone in a room for five minutes anyway, they drag me off directly to the train, where I am turned over to another peacekeeper and escorted to a luxurious suite of rooms. I hear the key turn in the lock behind me, and know that despite my surroundings I am still a prisoner.

I lie down on the soft mattress of the bed, completely relaxed as I wait for my puny co-tribute to arrive and get this journey started.

In less than two weeks I'll be _legally_ doing what I do best.

Killing.

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

Help me, someone please, get me out of this, get me OUT OF THIS!

The words run in an endless loop through my brain as I bolt inside the Justice Building. I'm going to the Death Games, and not only am I a tribute, I'm paired with a serial killer. The look he gave me on the stage tells me I'm absolutely his first target.

Oh God. Having those chilling blue eyes in that deadpan swarthy face be the last thing I see as the life leaks from my body…

I can almost feel the sensation of cold steel sliding into my abdomen, and his cruel laugh as my life and dignity flow red across the ground...

The walls begin to spin and I can't breathe, as though I really were dying. Suddenly there is a hard smack against my cheek and I realize I've fallen onto the marble floor of the Justice Building. My cheek stings and I wan't to open my eyes, but I don't want to see my killers coming for me.

I curl up, trying to protect my head as I'm pulled upright. None to gently I am dropped onto something soft and the door slams shut behind me. Where am I?

Shivering and crying, I roll into myself, desperate to escape. I'm shaking so hard my teeth clack together, and I can't form a coherent thought. Am I a tribute, or did someone kidnap me?

My panicking brain blurs the lines between reality and non-reality, until I don't know up from down. Vaguely I grasp the fact that my mother and father come in to say goodbye, being hugged by mother as I wail against her, sobbing so hard that my eyes squeeze tight shut, my father whispering ineffectual apologies, me refusing to listen…

Finally my irregular breathing begins to quiet, and I sit up cautiously. There is no serial killer ramming a knife into my abdomen, no laughing careers arguing about how to dice me up.

There is only Winnie and Cedar and Sequoia, and they wrap me into their arms. I cry more quietly as they tell me goodbye, promising to always remember my friendship. I appreciate their sentiments of quiet respect, but they're acting like I'm already dead, a fragile thing that could break at a touch. I feel fear surging up inside me again as the peacekeepers escort them out, then the door opens to admit Jo.

"Hi, Emmett," she says softly, shutting the door behind her. Her eyes are red-rimmed and her cheeks flushed, but she puts on a small brave smile.

I return the expression. "Hey, Jo," I answer tiredly. Then, not knowing what else to say, "Thanks for being my friend. It really meant a lot to me."

"Emmett, don't say that!" Jo cries. "You're acting like you're already dead! Don't talk about us in past tense, we're still friends! You can do this Emmett, I know you can. Seven has more victors than any outer district. You know how to climb and use an axe, I _know_ you can come back. Think of Luke, and Keegan. They _need_ you here, Emmett, we all do. Promise me you'll try."

"Alright, I'll try." I say. "But we can't count on me coming back. Please Jo, can you keep an eye on Keegan for me if…something happens?"

"Two eyes, if I can spare them," she tells me, giving me a hug.

"Thank you Jo," I say, hugging her back, my voice breaking, "and I _will_ try. I really will."

Still shaking but with a new sense of purpose, I watch Jo as her time runs out and she leaves. Then I sit back down in the chair, realizing for the first time just how rich this room is, and draw my knees up to my chest.

Then the doorknob begins to twist and I know immediately who it is and fly from my chair.

A moment later my guess is confirmed and with a gasping sob, both happy to have seen him before I leave and desperate not to go, I fling myself into Luke's arms.

He gives a shuddering sob and hugs me so tight it hurts, but I revel in the sensation. If this is pain, then I wish it could last forever. I slide my hand up onto his neck and hug him back, wanting to fold myself into him and never leave. Luke would protect me.

But finally I have to let go, and I step back, my hands still resting on his broad shoulders. Gently, he slides his broad, callused hand over mine and draws it down, turning my slender hand over and looking down at the knuckles. I follow his gaze.

There is the ring he gave me, my mother's that Kim gave her long ago, before he died and she married Scott. The tiny pearl gleams many-colored in the center of a slim silver band. My mother told him to give it to me, and he did only three months ago, telling me that with my mother's permission he wanted to marry me once I turned eighteen and the shadow of the Reaping no longer hung over me. It was really just a formality; worrying about the Reaping. We never expected I would actually get picked.

I choke slightly, wondering what would have been.

"Emmett," he says, taking my chin and tilting it up so that I am staring directly into his eyes. They are tender and sad, dark brown, like the gentle ones of a deer. "One way or another, you're going to be safe by the end of theses Games. You'll either be home or…" his voice falters, "you'll be beyond the reach of anything that could hurt you. I want to know something though, before you leave. If you come back, will you marry me?"

"Luke," I whisper. "I love you. Yes."

The last word is barely audible, and I slip the ring from my left ring finger before handing it to him and sticking out my right hand. "Give it to me again," I say.

Slowly, he slips it onto my right ring finger. It shows that I am married, and though that isn't true yet we are that committed to one another. At the very least I can wear it proudly for the next two weeks, and it will remind me of what I'm fighting for.

As the metal, still warm from my skin a moment before, slips over my finger, I lean in and kiss him. For a moment we stand together, saying goodbye, but a few seconds later I step back.

"I love you," I whisper, hugging him and shutting my eyes.

"I love you too, Emmett," he says, his voice equally soft.

A moment later his strong arms leave me as his time is up and he departs, but I keep my eyes shut and even as I board the train I can still feel them.


	10. Aggression and Naivete - District 8

**District 8 Reaping**

* * *

 **Rose "Pixie" Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

I balance the tiny leather pouch carefully in my hand as I lie on my stomach, peering through the gap in the tall grass. A small, twitching black nose pokes cautiously from the nearest burrow. I bite my lip, chewing in concentration.

The prairie dogs all ran underground when I arrived, despite my careful approach. But now they're beginning to regain confidence.

The rest of a small, furry head peeps over and the entire animal pulls itself up and onto the mound beside its burrow, washing its chubby face with small pink paws. They are quite cute, but they also taste delicious, so I whip my sling up and over. The smooth rock I had loaded it with whines through the air, striking the animal on the forehead with a crunch. It stretches lifeless on the sand without so much as a squeak, and the other members of the colony whip underground.

I don't care though since I was only aiming for one, and I dash forward to claim my prey. The prairie dog's face is a smushed mess, but we don't eat that part anyway so I quickly cut off the paws, feet, and head and strip the dusty brown pelt from its body. Then I gut it and put the carcass into the canvas satchel that serves me as a gamebag, wrapping it in newspaper first so that the small amount of blood remaining in it won't leak out and soil my gamebag.

Walking in with a red-stained canvas satchel would be a dead giveaway. I wipe the blade of my old knife on my pants, knowing that the black fabric won't show a stain, and put it back into its hidden sheath inside my boot. The worn wooden handle fits neatly against my leg as I stand. It is smooth from years of use, and as I pull my gamebag onto my shoulder I can't help but think of my father. It was his knife.

It's been five years since his body was found behind the factory that makes peacekeeper uniforms, a single bullet in his head. The official statement was that he had been caught trying to break into the factory and shot in the act, but I know better. They must have found out somehow that he was hunting beyond the fence, in the wild prairies and woods that separate our urban District from District 11.

Since then I've kept hunting. Not by choice, believe me, I'm not stupid enough to think that I'm not being watched, but I can't get a job at any of the textile mills and our family's got to eat so what other choice do I have?

I was fired for insubordination when I was thirteen and since then no one's been willing to hire me. My brother Clovis is already married and Thorn's job isn't enough to support mother and I all by itself. Mother can't work ever since she caught her hand in a machine and mangled it.

Sighing, I look up at the sky.

The position of the sun tells me that it must be close to eleven o'clock, and I need to head home and clean up before the Reaping.

The Reaping.

The only good thing about Reaping Day is that I have five extra hours where I don't have to be in school and can hide out in the grasslands and pretend the Capitol doesn't exist. I sigh again, hitching the satchel higher on my shoulder.

It's painfully light today, all I found was the prairie dog and a few wild turnips, and my stomach growls mournfully. Yesterday I was only two blocks from my house when I had to stuff my entire haul in a dumpster, hearing a patrol of peacekeepers coming. I couldn't retrieve it since they stayed behind me the whole way home, and when I finally came back for it a few hours later it was gone.

At least some poor kid got quite a treat scavenging through _that_ dumpster.

Finally I reach the fence, hot and sweating under the burning sun. Enough electricity hums through that metal barrier to kill a person, but it doesn't scare me. I've climbed this fence too many times to care. There is a large shed that sits right up against the fence, and all I have to do to leave the district is shimmy up the drainpipe onto the roof and then jump off the other side and over the fence.

It's twelve feet down and I turned my ankle the first time I did it, but since then I've learned to drop and roll. Getting back in is a little tougher. I have a rope dangling down from the eaves that I use to climb over and then jump down the other side. My boots are made of rubber so as long as I use my hands only on the rope and not the fence I can climb right up and over.

I had one nasty scare when it started raining while I was out and about. Usually I bring rubber gloves with me if it rains, so that I can touch the wet rope and not get shocked by the voltage it inevitably absorbs when wet, but this time I'd forgotten them.

It was stupid and I ended up spending two miserable days shivering outside the fence before my brother Thorn realized what must have happened and brought me my gloves. I put them all in danger, and it's something I'm determined not to do again.

This time all is clear and I grasp the rope with both hands, climbing up the wire fence like it was a ladder. Once on the other side I drag my skinny body onto the roof of the shed and hide the rope inside a broken vent. Then I jump off the other side and set off down the street. The roads are deserted as most families stay inside, sleeping in while they have the chance.

Finally, I reach our little house, sandwiched between two huge tenement buildings, and open the door.

"I'm home, Mama," I say softly.

"Hey, Pixie," Thorn says, looking up from where he sits twisting a piece of twine into different shapes. "How'd it go?"

I grimace. "Not too bad, not too good," I answer. "Prairie dog and a threesome of stunted, half-grown turnips."

"Good job, Rose," my mother says. "That will be plenty when I fry it up with your tesserae grain."

I smile at the thought. Prairie dogs are greasy little animals, and fried with the turnips and wheat cakes will be quite delicious.

I hand her the game bag, then head upstairs to get ready. My short black hair is already pulled back into a high pony-tail, looking more like a rabbit's tail than a pony's, considering it's only a few inches long. It's tied in place with a pale blue ribbon of silk that Thorn gave me. It's very soft, something he found at the factory. The swept back hair makes my slightly pointed ears stand out, as well as my narrow face and tapered chin.

That's why almost everyone but mama calls me Pixie, saying I look like a fiery little elf. I pull on the rose-patterned dress my mother made me, the gray and blue matching my eyes perfectly. Blue roses only grow in the Capitol, where they make them that way, but my mama loves roses and that's why she named me after one. Both my names are rather outlandish in a district full of Twills, Cottons, Mandys, Paisleys, and other unassuming or fabric-themed names.

I scrub my face until it glistens even redder than it was, already sunburned by my time out-doors. I have fair skin, another out of place feature in my predominately black district.

Then I head downstairs again and eat a bowl of porridge, before leaving for the Reaping, hand in hand with Thorn and Mama.

* * *

 **Cotton Ombre, 12**

 **District 8 Male**

* * *

Humming a bouncy tune, I take a big helping of mashed potatoes from the pot, douse them in gravy, and hand the brimming plate to my little sister Paisley. She thanks me, taking the plate and walking over to the kitchen table. I dish up an even larger plate for myself, sprinkling a few chunks of crispy ham over the top and forking a mammoth slice of fried pumpkin onto the side.

Then I make my way back over to the table and sit down, between Paisley and my older brother Ty. We laugh and talk throughout the lunch, trying to distract ourselves from the threat of the Reaping.

We watch the Games every year; they're required viewing after all, but that doesn't mean we like them. In fact, we hate them, and the Capitol too. The terror of the Reaping is an ever present shadow in our lives. And this is the first year I'm eligible.

Once I start thinking about it I can't seem to stop, and I put down my fork and slide my chair back. The food is no longer appetizing. Excusing myself from the table I head upstairs and put on my navy blue dress pants that I have for special occasions, a white short-sleeved t-shirt, and tie a blue bandanna around my neck.

By the time I head downstairs the others have finished eating and are ready to go. I sniff, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. Ty notices and walks over to me where I sit tying my shoes.

"What's wrong, Scrap?" he asks, using my pet-name.

Usually Ty and I don't get along well, but I guess everyone feels closer on Reaping Day.

"Nothing," I say, managing a wan smile. "Just a little nervous is all."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Ty says, ruffling my already messy red hair. "I was terrified _my_ first year." He leans down with a conspiratorial look in his eyes. "Just between you and me," he whispers, "when the escort pulled the boys' slip I peed my pants."

I giggle, knowing he's making it up or I would have noticed, but the playful banter we share helps me to forget my fear.

Finally even Paisley is ready to go, her pink, glowing face scrubbed and shining as brightly as her dress. We exit into the bright sunlight and start off down the street to the Reaping.

My fear surges back, heavy enough to block out the bright sunlight from my eyes like a cloud.

* * *

 **Rose "Pixie" Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

I'm the only one eligible for the Reaping in my family, so Thorn flashes me an encouraging smile as I sign in alone and head to my section. I keep my head down, not wanting any of the girls to notice me and tease me.

In District 8, nearly everyone has dark skin except the wealthier classes, and I am neither dark-skinned nor wealthy. So the rich girls tease me for wearing Thorn's cast-off clothes, telling me I look as shapeless as a bolt of felt. The others keep to themselves, distrusting me because of my wealthy appearance. They're afraid I'll look down on them for their color.

The sun burns on the back of my neck and my tense muscles begin to stiffen as I stand, waiting. I'm going to have a whopping sunburn once I get home.

Finally, the escort comes onto the stage.

We're one of the few Districts with a male escort, but honestly it's hard to tell the difference between a man and a woman when they're coated in layers of garish makeup as thick as Romulus Appleby's.

His brown skin is stenciled with a herringbone weave pattern, and many pairs of earrings dangle from his ears. And his lips. And his nose. And his eyebrows.

He wears a suit pieced in a patchwork of different fabrics and textiles, both rich Capitol designs and colorful District ones.

He taps the microphone, a sound which reverberates across the square. Then, not one to mince words, he strides straight to the front of the stage and introduces our mayor.

She's a fiend, a demon that reminds me of a District 2 female tribute, or a harpy. Her grey hair hangs in a severe slant down her cheekbones, and her eyes have the calculating look of a bird of prey. There was an attempt at growing a new rebellion here in Eight and Zoe Slate was sent by the Capitol to be our mayor, and make sure all rebellion was crushed.

Most likely, her crackdown resulted in the death of my father.

A silent tear rolls down my cheek as they read the Treaty of Treason, and I pray that all those rebels and my father are in a better place.

Finally, the lying words end and the Reaping commences. I sigh with relief. I hate the Reaping, but the sooner it's over the better.

Romulus' hand dips into the bowl and pulls out a thin slip of paper, as white and wispy as the poor soul it is condemning to the hell of the arena.

Then the slip is unfolded and the name is read.

And it's mine.

There is a sensation of falling as the world goes black.

Ow.

* * *

 **Cotton Ombre, 12**

 **District 8 Male**

* * *

I watch in horror as the escort reads off the name and a underfed looking fifteen year old crumples to the ground. For a moment my terrified brain worries that she's dead, but as they carry her limp body into the Justice Building a ripple of news spreads across the crowd from where she fell.

I release the breath I was holding. She only fainted.

That split-second of terror that shown in her eyes before she fell tears at my brain like a wild phantom of dread. She knew she was going to die, I could see it in her eyes.

Even Romulus looks a little startled by this unusual turn of events, but like the showman he's paid to be he quickly brings the situation under control by pulling the male name and reading it off.

Cotton Ombre.

Me.

The same terror I saw on the young girl's face must shine in my eyes now as I whirl to flee, but white coated peacekeepers quickly secure me, pinning my flailing arms. Waves of terror wash through my mind, and I suddenly realize that I'm screaming, begging for a volunteer. Horrified, I stare at the faces of the other boys as I am dragged to the stage.

Their eyes are stony, though in some I can see a flicker of shame. But they are all impassive, and in that moment I accept my doom.

My sobs quiet to whimpers as the escort announces my name. Normally I would shake my district partner's hand before leaving for the goodbyes, but she is nowhere in sight. Probably they took her straight to the train.

I am escorted into the Justice Building, but my terrified brain cannot process the luxury around me and as soon as I am alone I curl up in the decadent chair that sits in the center of the room, wishing I could shrink down among its fuzzy folds and never creep out again.

I wonder who will come. Surely my family will, and maybe my friend Ray.

Ray is much older than me, but he's a really cool guy. He steals from peacekeepers and all the boys look up to him. Out of them though, I'm the one he actually talks to. Sometimes he even lets me help him on some of the tougher raids. He makes up the funniest nicknames for me too, gnat, and leech and stuff. He says that they're cute little bugs that like to follow smart people, just like me. Having a friend like Ray makes me proud.

The door opens suddenly and my entire family streams into the room, engulfing me in their embrace. Even stolid Ty, who wouldn't be caught dead hugging someone, gathers me to him with tears starting in his eyes.

My mother is sniffling, and they encourage me, telling me to try to survive. Even though they say it, I know I won't. I couldn't, wouldn't, kill another human being to save my life, and that's exactly what I'm going to have to do.

My family, my friends, my after school job as errand boy…goodbye to them all.

I hug Paisley and tell her I love her, then tell them all that as they echo my words, and the room is filled with love until the door opens, and the peacekeepers suck it away.

Then Ray comes in. "Good riddance, gnat," he growls.

Ray's odd that way, and for a moment I wonder what he meant.

Then I dismiss the thought.

He was probably just joking around.

* * *

 **Rose "Pixie" Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

The world rocks and sways as my eyes open. I am lying on a soft surface, silk I think, like the hair ribbon Thorn brought home for my birthday.

I slide onto the thick carpeted floor which sways as well, and walk to the window. Probably I'm just still dizzy.

When I reach the glass pane and stare out, I reel back in horror. Outside are the flapping leaves of District 11's vineyards.

The train has already left, without my goodbyes.

In all likelihood I will never see my family again.


	11. Disabled and Disheartened - District 9

**District 9 Female**

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

Using light, careful strokes I draw the charcoal across the paper and then rub it with my finger, smearing it over the disc that is the sun, streaking the paper in a near perfect representation of the mid afternoon haze it shines through. I look up at the sky, squinting and turning the drawing before myself. It looks pretty good.

The stalks of wheat tickle the soles of my thickly callused feet and scratch at my bare legs. My dress goes only past my knees, so my calves are fully exposed to the rough stalks. Though a sudden movement can make the crisp canes cut like knives, the tickle feeling is actually quite pleasant.

I was born deaf, and have had to look at the world with my other senses, so I pick up more with my eyes and hands since my ears do not help me. I was actually one of triplets, but its hard for a woman's body to grow three healthy babies all at once, and one little girl was still-born. Another, me, was deaf, and then there's my brother.

I have mixed feelings toward Henri. He's kind to me, but he couldn't seem to learn sign language so we can't really talk to one another. Also, he usually gets a lot more attention than me, since he's not disabled and I am. Our district is tiny and undernourished, so it's not unusual for a less hardy child to slip through the cracks in favor of another.

My father didn't want me to know, but they are part of an organization that doesn't like the Capitol. No one in District 9 does, but this is different. Everyone knows what a disaster the first rebellion was, but that doesn't stop a few of our citizens from participating in small acts of sabotage. They're almost never caught, and there's no organized movement, but a spoiled batch of grain here, a subversive slogan there…

They can't pin it down on anyone, but the peacekeepers know, I'm sure of it. It started two years ago, when dad and Henri had already been a part of the mission for years.

Yes, the peacekeepers know. I can tell from their expressions when they pass a guilty house, the we-have-you-now looks they share when a new act takes place. They know, and it's only a matter of time before something is done about it.

Until I was fifteen and realized how dangerous rebellion was, all I wanted was to help my family in their fight. My uncle taught me to use a bow and arrow. I wanted to prove myself to them, to show that when the time was ripe I could fight as well as anyone else.

I wanted them to trust me.

But when I was twelve dad found out. He said I was reckless and foolish, that the plan wasn't and never had been to fight. He burnt the bow and forbade me from seeing my uncle ever again.

I draw now, draw and dream of a better era for my family. For our country.

Dragging myself heavily to my feet, I stand and walk back over the fields toward the house. My yellow dress is made of very thin material but I still sweat in the hot sun. I make my way into the town and slip among the streets. The tarmac burns against my feet, hot from absorbing the noonday sun.

I slip inside, and shut the door gently, pausing in the hallway to set my sketchpad and pencil back inside the satchel of mine that hangs behind the door. A vibration rattles the creaky floorboards and I turn.

Henri is there, and he signs hello, one of the few words he can do.

I sign back and he beckons for me to come into the kitchen. That's when the smell of thickly buttered cornbread hits my nostrils and I break into a run, galloping into the kitchen. My father stands there smearing butter across long golden chunks of fragrant bread.

A stab of pain pierces my heart. One of my few memories of my mother was her standing at the stove, buttering cornbread as golden as her hair. She disappeared when I was five, and I always believed she would come back, a belief my father led me on in.

Eventually my uncle told me the truth. She got sick and died, and she wasn't coming back. Since then I've been more cautious, knowing that people frequently take me for gullible or slow because of my disability. I can tell from the way people sign their words whether they're being honest. Usually when father and Henri lie it's only to protect me, but that still makes me furious. I'm just as tough as any of them.

Right now I force that thought out of my mind, and put a smile on my face. I will be civil on Reaping Day. Everyone is kinder on Reaping Day. Signing thank you, I take the chunk of cornbread my father offers.

Then I bite in. The gritty dough is still warm from the oven, and butter still melting soaks the edges. I smile for real, letting my father know that it is good. We eat in silence, not even father and Henri talking. Then we stand, brushing the crumbs from our lips, and Henri goes upstairs to change into his reaping outfit.

My yellow dress is what I have worn for the last two years, since I mostly finished growing at fifteen and am short for my age, it still fits me. I slip brown sandals over my sore feet.

Since it is a special day, I wear shoes.

Henri comes downstairs, his brown hair slicked and matching nicely his brown pants and yellow shirt, made from the same cloth as my dress. A lot of families buy a unisex color of cloth and then make dresses and shirts for the entire family from it. Our color this year was yellow, and I like it. It is the same gold as a sunrise, the pulsing throat of a meadowlark, or the fragrant gleam of a new-cut field.

Tell him he looks handsome, I sign to my father. He turns to Henri and says something. Henri smiles bashfully and says something back.

He says, do you think Bine will like it? my father signs.

I laugh and turn to Henri, nodding confidently. Bine is a girl in his class, with warm brown skin and eyes like a doe. They will be a wonderful pair and hope to marry next year. A pang shoots through me. I have never known love, and doubt I ever will. Nobody wants a wife that might bear deaf children.

There is one good thing about today though, I reflect. After today, neither I nor Henri or Bine will ever have to worry about the Games again.

We are all eighteen, and tomorrow we are safe.

* * *

 **Leon Rayner, 17**

 **District 9 Male**

* * *

Looking from side to side to make sure no one's following, I climb inside the dumpster standing behind District 9's seamstress shop. The dumpsters get emptied every morning, and since it's Reaping Day and everybody's resting indoors, the massive trash bin lies empty.

A perfect hiding spot for a thief to eat his stolen goods. Maybe I do sometimes get breaks after all.

It definitely wasn't a break that I got seen forcing my way into a house this morning, and what's worse the house happened to be owned by the fittest dude I ever saw in my life and his old mom. Burly guy chased me a couple of streets til I managed to evade him, but it was quite a scare.

At least it was worth it, I think, pulling a long, barely eaten bologna, large bowl of goat cheese and a quarter loaf of bread from my sack. I take turns alternating between chunks of the spicily seasoned sausage, strong goat cheese and slightly moldy bread. For me, it's one of the best meals I've had in a while, I don't know how long.

Old Agri at the home never fed us enough, though goodness knows she could of done it easy with all the tesserae she had us take. Realizing that Calla, Mauzi and the others probably haven't had a real meal any more recently than I have, I tuck the remaining food back into the satchel and set off down the street.

I bypass the square where the peacekeepers are setting up for the Reaping, and move into the shadier part of town. Finally I reach the dump, mounds of refuse from every year of our district, ranging from corroded and fully decomposed to the freshness of this year's waste. Moving back to stuff that was probably thrown out sometime around the 50th Games I locate the corrugated roof of our shack poking up from above the jumbled heaps of cans, bottles, and other tumbled miscellany that fills the dump.

Food scraps are notably absent. It's a commodity no one in District 9 can afford to throw away.

I can hear the rasping scrapes of Calla's fiddle before I round the heap, and once within distance I pick up a stone—or is it a pice of twisted metal—and chuck it onto the roof of the shack. The music stops abruptly, and then Rust's head peeps out the door, her red hair hanging unkempt about her cheeks.

"Hey, Rusty!" I call. "Tell them old Leo's back. With treats."

She smiles and nods, but hearing my voice the others tumble out before she actually says anything. Wheat and Rye, the youngest in our group, look hollow cheeked and thin. This sausage will do them good.

Our group is one sob story of depressing backgrounds. I think we must make up half the abused or neglected kids in our tiny district. There's Calla and Mauzy who are orphaned and play the violin on the street for a few pennies, Furrow and Robin who sell, well, _illegal substances_ to those that ask and can afford them. Burgundy from the same home I lived in, and Wheat and Rye who's father used to beat them up. We're a little family of orphans, bums, and no-goods who can't hold a job or their luck.

I crawl inside the shack and dump the sack down on the floor of the dim interior. There is a cry of delight and a scramble of grimy hands. The food disappears before I could say "peacekeeper". It's hot and stuffy inside the little shack, and before long it's time to head out for the Reaping.

Calla, Mauzi and I will all be safe after this year, and I can't say I'll be sorry to not have to go any more. There's an unspoken agreement that if one of us gets picked the others will stick together and look after each other. The odds are not in our favor, since all of us have tesserae and…other factors.

A stab of regret shoots through me as I think of those "other factors".

When my parents went psycho and were taken away to an "asylum" in District 2 any of my three aunts could have taken me in, and my older married brother could have too. None of them did. They new I had a lazy and lawless reputation and simply didn't want another mouth to feed. I knew they also didn't want someone that they couldn't trust in their house. They're part of a secret organization that performs little acts of sabotage around the district. Two years ago in a fit of rage I spilled the beans on them to the peacekeepers. I got my revenge all right when their children were mysteriously reaped over the two years since then, and just last month the remainder of their families were executed.

In some ways I'm glad it happened. After all, they deserved it and left me to rot. I'm still scowling when the time to leave comes and we exit the shack, going in ones and twos toward the square.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

We enter the square already drenched in sweat from the noonday heat. Beside the sign-in table a haze of heat waves shimmers in a disorienting dance above the sweltering cobbles.

My hair sticks to my face and I push it back, stepping up and letting the peacekeepers take a drop of my blood and sign me in. I move over to the eighteen year olds section, but don't recognize anyone. My father-and my mother until she died-taught me my letters at home, so I don't really know anyone. I couldn't learn at school anyway, since there isn't any special treatment for deaf kids around here.

I stand in the dizzying heat, arms folded across my chest and staring at the ground. I don't look up until the quiver in the stones beneath me tells me that the video has started, the massive speakers making the ground shake. My father hand-signed me what the video meant once, but I never wanted to hear it again after that. The Reapings have always been a nuisance for me. What does my being here even accomplish? The Capitol can't brainwash a deaf girl with their hearing-based propaganda, but there are no exceptions to the rule that everyone must attend the Reaping. Reaping Day is usually just a blur of boredom, and watching the stricken faces of whoever leaves this year, never to return.

I watch a lot of television just to break the monotony of my life, despite the fact that the violence of the Games sickens me. With the yearly Games and re-runs of past years combined, I probably know more about the Games than almost anyone in our district. They are brutal and terrifying and bloody and dehumanizing. I pity our few victors, seeing the pain they mask behind their stony eyes. And yet I know that if my name were ever called, I would fight just as hard as any of them. Lose my soul just as easily in an attempt to survive. That is the true horror of what the Capitol does to us.

I sigh in relief as the formalities end and the escort takes the stage. I don't know her name, but what she wears, or rather doesn't wear, marks her as being from the Capitol. The Reaping is nearly over. I can't wait to return home.

They call the name and I scan the crowd to see who it will be this year. No one is moving. I frown.

Probably a little kid still denying to themselves that it was their name called.

And then I notice.

Every eye in my section is trained on me.

 _No._ The blood drains from my face, sucking all the way down to my toes and taking my heart with it. _No._

I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I glance from face to face, feeling like a trapped animal.

Fight or flight?

I run.

Strong arms close on me even before I can finish whirling to dash away, and I submit limply to their embrace, shutting my eyes. I was right. The Capitol knew my father was a rebel, but they aren't going to shoot him, oh no. They've found something even more precious than life to take from him. They're going to destroy his family.

A spark of desperate hope glows inside me. Maybe I can win. In some ways I'm a better candidate than many. I've watched the Games, I can read faces and nature, I've used a weapon...

But I can't hear.

Perhaps all that I can hope for is a chance to show them that I'm more than just the deaf daughter of a rebel. Maybe I can show my father that I can fight as hard as he can. Maybe I can show them all that I'm just as smart and brave and _rebellious_ as any of them.

The odds are not in my favor, yet there is always hope.

I _will_ try.

* * *

 **Leon Rayner, 18**

 **District 9 Male**

* * *

Oh, look at that, a poor little deaf girl. I've seen her around before.

Yes, I've seen more of her that I'd like to. Her parents were mighty close to that no-good brother of mine that left me to rot in a Capitol-run home. In fact, they were part of the same group of rebels. Apparently the peacekeepers aren't content just to reap the ones I squealed on, they're digging up some other families too. Oh well, what a pity.

I shrug and shift my weight from my left foot to my right, and only then do I realize who I'm standing next to.

It's burly guy from this morning, and right now is when he chooses to turn around, stretching his legs.

Recognition flashes in his eyes.

Oh. No. Not. Good.

Then the escort draws the male name, and burly guy whirls, his face crumpling.

"No!" he yells. "Furrow!"

The fourteen-year-old boy whose name was called turns, and the family resemblance is striking. He must be burly guys brother. I can't help but crack a malicious smile.

Nothing in the world though, prepares me for what happens next.

Burly guy reaches out and grabs me by the arm. I can feel the power in his muscles, and know he could snap me like a twig if he wanted to. My eyes widen, fearing that he's about to take out his rage at the games on the closest insignificant object. Which happens to be me.

But that's not his plan.

"Volunteer," he hisses, tightening his grip on my arm. "Volunteer, or so help me I will find you, and I'll tell the peacekeepers you were breaking into my house just this morning. My mother was there, she saw you."

Terror courses through me and I twist desperately in his grip. If I can just stall him a few more seconds they'll announce Furrow's name to the Capitol and it'll be too late for any threats to force me into the death games.

But then burly adds the last straw: "You know what they do to thieves, right street rat? They cut off your hand. _If_ you're lucky. If you're not, they cut off both hands. I reckon I'm not the only one you've stole from. I bet I could dig up enough witnesses to convince them to take your feet too."

That's it.

Anything is better than to stay here with this maniac bent on destroying me.

"Okay," I gasp, and he shoves me forward onto the cobbles.

"I volunteer," I yell, my voice showing all the anger I feel at being bested at last.

Surprise and confusion show on every face as I stalk balefully to the stage, caressing my sore arm. As I pass the eighteen-year-old girls' section Mauzi's brown hand reaches out for a split second and I take it as she transfers a smooth disk from her hand to mine. The movement takes only a second and nobody notices. I reach the stage and climb up beside the white-faced deaf rebel girl that is my district partner. She's trembling but more or less composed as the escort announces our names and we shake hands.

Once I am alone in the Justice Building, I open my hand and inspect the gift inside.

It's Mauzi's lucky penny. She knew none of our gang could risk saying goodbye and getting caught on camera, so giving her luck-charm to me was her way of saying farewell. I sigh wearily, rubbing the stubble on my chin.

Maybe with the penny I'll actually make it out, but probably not. No bronze charm is going to counter the perpetual jinx that seems to float over my head.

I have now come to the conclusion that my successful robbery this morning was actually _not_ a break.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

Inside the Justice Building I take a moment to calm the frantic fluttering of my heart. I lean over and take a few deep breaths, letting the brave facade I put up while on the stage crumble.

By the time father and Henri come in I am composed, my breathing normal and my heart rate steady if still a little fast. They hug me and cry over me, but once I've let them vent their emotions for a moment I push them back and climb to my feet. Putting as much feeling as I can into the motions, I sign that I will win this thing. Win or lose, live or die, I am still their daughter, their sister, and I will show them that I am proud to bear the Booker name. Proud to rebel with them. Proud to die, if that is my fate. Life is about more than just breathing, it is about finding something higher than ourselves that we will fight for. Something we are willing to die for. _I have found that something,_ I finish.

I can see the doubt in their eyes as they look at me, but finally my father nods slowly. Haltingly and imperfectly, Henri signs: I believe you, and places something round and smooth in my hand.

The stuttering signs, the wordless words, say more to me than I have ever heard before.

I look down, and see a little round piece of wood, carved in the shape of a scythe cutting the base of a branching wheat stalk. It is the sign of District 9's little rebellion, symbolizing that if we cut away the Districts, the base on which the Capitol stands, the whole thing will fall.

Almost, I think, as father and Henri engulf me in the first sincere hug since my mother died, I am almost glad to be deaf. It forces people to speak to me with their eyes and their hearts.

Today is one of those days.


	12. Klutzy and Kind - District 10

**District 10 Reaping**

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

I whistle a happy tune as I run a sharp kitchen knife through a thick slab of beef. We own a cattle farm, so it isn't like beef is a special treat, but a big, juicy, prime cut like this is. Our dairy herd is small but respectable, and we get by much better than the average family. I have never had to take tesserae, and neither will Colby when he becomes eligible in two years. Sometimes, though, I think, setting down the knife with a sigh, I almost _wish_ we were like everyone else. I rest my chin on my stubby fingers and lean against my own arm.

The other children resent the stability of my life and family. I do help around the farm a lot, but I've never had to work for my living mucking stables the way most kids my age do. My non-lack of food is evident in my waistline. I'm not fat, but I've got a more, well, _padded_ figure. It's something to be jealous of. Most girls want to be plump and curvy, as it helps draw in a prospective husband, and the fact that I have that body shape but no desire for male attention gets under their skins. My best friend, Tobias Pasture is a boy, but there is nothing romantic between us. We've just always gotten along well, I guess.

I hear footsteps behind me and pick up the knife, sawing away at the roast once again, but I'm too late. Mother caught me slouching. She frowns and sets her hands on her hips.

"Rica, how many times have a told you to keep your mind on your work?" She arches one eyebrow delicately.

Mother has more discipline in one slender little finger than I could ever have in my whole body. She is very strict, but at the same time is ladylike and kind. I'll never be like that, always bouncing between dreamy prattling and tomboyish workaholism. I can't ever seem to keep my mind on a task for more than a few minutes, and any sort of routine puts me to sleep. I love trying new things though, and I think that might be another reason for the vague feeling of dislike that most of my other district members have. They get exited about my enthusiasm and then disappointed when I don't follow through.

My mind is like a goat kid, or a bee: full of energy and constantly bounding or buzzing from one place to the next.

"I'm sorry," I say contritely, and I mean it too. I'd like to do better, it's just that...

With an exasperated sigh mother takes the knife from my hand and slices the meat herself, the pieces peeling off in rolls of uniform thickness. I'll never be as patient and careful as her.

Realizing I still ought to help I go over to our small ice box and pull out a large round cheese, slicing pieces off that and setting them along with the meat atop pieces of fresh bakery bread. I put a piece in my mouth and revel in the flavor. I don't think I could ever get tired of cheese, or meat either. Mother makes the best cheese I've ever tasted, and the Capitol thinks so too. We're able to export almost every bit she makes to fancy Capitol restaurants, and with the meat going to the stores in the Capitol and other Districts, it's plenty to support four people, a dog, and a dairy herd.

Just as I think that a cold wet nose pokes against my knee. "Down Shebby," I tell the dog.

She sits obediently, but her hindquarters are hardly touching the floor and she whines eagerly. I roll my eyes and drop one of the more ragged meat slices into her eager jaws.

She gulps it down and twists eagerly, her eyes pleading for more.

"No," I say, "that was a special treat and you know it."

She whines.

I roll my eyes and go to set the table.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

"Come on, silly," I say gently, trying to coax the soft bundle of wool in my arms into allowing me to feed him. Cotton is a little lamb. He wasn't vigorous when he was born, and the farmers wanted to send him to the stockyard, but I intervened. They let me keep him in exchange for half a week's wages. It was a good deal for me, since I knew I could help him live. Animals tend to cotton on to me - which in addition to his fluffy white fur is why I named him what I did - and right now it's being proven. He's still a little reluctant to drink out of the bottle though, and I sigh as half his breakfast dribbles out of his mouth, soaking into his wooly chin.

"Silly boy," I say again, "you don't want to starve do you?" I gently squeeze the corners of his mouth, forcing him to open it, then jam the bottle in. I tilt his head back so that the milk will run down his throat. At first he squeals, fighting me, but then he gets the idea and his little tail begins to wag as sucking sounds come from his puckered pink mouth.

I smile in satisfaction. "Good job, little fella, that's it."

His tail wags harder, and with a few last vigorous sucks the milk is gone. I scratch around at his little ears and set him down, watching as he gambols about the room on gangly baby legs. Finally tired, and feeling satisfied, he comes back over to me and lies down beside me. Soon he falls asleep, and I lay him back down on the straw of his little pen.

I sit against the wall, watching the regular rise and fall of his sides as he breathes.

Animals are everywhere here in 10, but somehow the wonder never gets old for me. They're so trusting. I understand why we have to raise them for food, and I do love a good hunk of juicy meat, but I think that I can both respect them and be willing to eat them. Not that I could _ever_ eat Cotton. At least when they're babies, the idea is unthinkable. I always thank the animal for its life when I see one being slaughtered.

Sometimes I almost wish I was a sheep or a goat. Yes, maybe I'd have to worry about getting eaten, but I wouldn't ever have to worry about money, or politics, or morals. Holding to morality in Panem is nearly impossible, and sickens me much more than even the thought of eating Cotton. Because we are _not_ animals, we are people, but that doesn't stop the Capitol from sending us off to slaughter. It's such a waste.

After all, they don't even eat us.

Slowly, I become aware of the feeling that someone is watching me and, turning, see my brother Rangle standing in the doorway, a quizzical look on his face.

My father likes Rangle better than me, I know. I can't hold it against either of them. Rangle is the ideal son. Bold, outgoing, sturdy and helpful. I'm...well, I'm different. I'm soft-spoken, and quiet. I know they both love me for that, and we are a very tight-knit family, but I don't think they quite understand my connection to the innocent and the good. The best thing that ever happened to me was when my teacher in Year 10 challenged me to make others smile.

I'd never really though of that before, but now that I have, I can see that it is perhaps the noblest goal in the world.

"Hi, Rangle," I say.

"Hey," he says. "Only two more years for you to worry about, right?"

I know instantly what he's referring to. The ever-present shadow of the Reaping that hangs over the children of every district. I force a smile and answer: "Yeah."

He can tell instantly by my one-syllable response that I'm nervous.

"Hey, brother, two more years. Then you and that pretty Vera Wilton can-"

I launch myself across the room and punch him in the arm before he can say another word. He fights me off easily and flips me over my shoulder. I'm seventeen, and can't believe he's still able to pull that move on me. "Just what are you insinuating?" I say as best I can, my words sounding a little strangled. Then again, what can you expect when you're upside down? "If you're looking to send all the blood to my head in the hopes of a romantic confession, sorry, you're doomed to failure."

He carries me to a pile of straw and drops me unceremoniously. I land on my head and roll over awkwardly. "Vera and I are friends," I say firmly.

The truth is, it's getting harder for me to know. We've been best friends since Year 3 in school, and she shares my goal of spreading smiles, though most of hers are the comedic kind. She's also very strong willed. I even saw her stand up to a peacekeeper once, who'd accused her little brother of slacking. She stared him down while I watched in terror for her. I'm still not sure how she had the guts to do it, and I hope that if someone messed with her I'd be just as brave. I'm not positive, but I think I could be.

It's that newly-growing protective instinct for her that makes me wonder if deep down I don't want her to be something more. I'll have to think about it. Either way, almost no one gets serious about...those sorts of things until they're safe from the Reaping.

The Reaping! I rush to the door and look outside. The sun tells me that it's 1:00, and the Reaping is in half an hour. It's only a ten minute walk from here to the square, but I still need to eat, dress, and probably drink some water. Standing in the sweltering sun for an hour during the Reaping could be pretty brutal if I skipped that.

"I need to get ready," I shout to Rangle, and dash out of the shed that serves as a barn for us. I go around to the front of the house, my bare feet getting coated in dust, and walk down the pathway. My mother Rosalind has an excellent touch for decorating, and as I look down the dusty street I realize just how much of a difference that touch has made in beautifying our home. Even when I come home from a long day of cowherd duty, tired, dusty, and sore from hours on a horse, that beauty strikes me. She has paved the walk up to our house with smooth pebbles from a nearby stream, and planted prickly pear.

These cacti bloom in beautiful orange flowers that turn into succulent fruits. The fruits, called _tuña,_ are quite delicious. I wish they were fruiting now.

I go inside, hearing the droning of flies buzzing around the table where my mother is preparing lunch. Hurrying, I take the stairs two at a time until I reach the bathroom. The tiles are cool under my feet, and the tub is already full of water for me. I strip off my clothes and plunge into the cold water, splashing and wallowing like a javelina in a mud hole.

Finished, I towl myself off and pull on a red t-shirt and jeans. Many of the other districts dress up for the Reapings, but it's so hot here I honestly don't care how I look, I am not wearing a long-sleeved collared shirt!

I push my damp orange bangs out of my eyes, and head downstairs again. Mother has prepared quesadillas, my favorite, and since both Rangle and my father are already there we say a prayer of thanksgiving over the food and dig in. Finished, we head out the door to the Reaping.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

By the time my family reaches the square, I am already sweating profusely, my plain linen dress plastered to my body and my hair completely soaked. I hate the heat, even though I'm somewhat used to it. When we sign in there is a brief commotion as my little brother Colby refuses to put out his finger to get pricked. He's always been timid, and it takes some cajoling before he finally cooperates.

With that out of the way, me, my mother, and my father quickly follow. I giggle a little to myself as I remember Colby's reluctance. The prick doesn't even hurt! Colby is frequently called the 'perfect little gentleman', but as was just seen, he has his moments. He was sickly as a baby and to my way of thinking mother spoiled him a little, so now he's more needy then me. I like being independent.

I see Tobias standing in the boys' section and wave to him, but since it's almost time for the Reaping to start there's not time for me to walk over and say hi. We would have gone to the Reaping together except that he lives on the opposite side of the square from me and logistically it would have been a challenge.

With only a minute left until the Reaping starts, one last family comes puffing up. I recognize Byron Calvert's family. He's a year older than me, and known for being giddily optimistic, but I don't exactly mind that. While he hangs out with his own crowd, he isn't overtly hostile like some of the other kids are.

Then our escort walks out on stage and I give a snort of laughter before I can stop it. She must not be familiar with animals otherwise she would know that dressing up as a _pig_ was a bad career choice. Floppy pink ears protrude from her kinky tinted hair, and there's even a little curly tail on the back of her skirt. A titter runs through the crowd, then swells to a laugh as someone not-so-quietly says that they 'wonder if she's got piggy perfume on to match'. Piggy perfume would be decidedly unattractive.

The escort looks flustered, and if she wasn't from the Capitol I might feel sorry for her, but she simply switches on the Capitol video without any introduction. Our mayor has been poorly lately and is not present. The brutal images flashing past of the dark days would make me feel sick if I hand't seen them a thousand times before. Piles of skulls, screaming people, soldiers bleeding and dying...

I tune it out until the fanfare ends and the escort wobbles to the podium on sparkly pink heels, that make an 'oink' noise every time she steps. For the record, pig noise sound nothing like 'oink'.

Her name is apparently Alasha Kay, and as she rambles on about how much she loves the games I begin to feel a little sick. She realizes she's taking to people that have watched their kids die, right? Only last year this wonderful girl got butchered by careers. They said the little D10 animal butcher should know what the poor creatures felt like. It was the most disgusting spectacle. Mother actually threw up.

Now we all stand silent and sober, wondering who it will be next time. Probably one of the poor families, the ones with lots of kids and tesserae.

But it isn't.

The escort reads out the name, and it's Ricotta Erripe.

Me.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

I don't know the girl tribute as she ascends the stage, looking shocked at first but eventually giving a nervous giggle. I know that shouldn't make me feel better, but somehow it selfishly does. My friends will go on to live another year, or at least Vera will. I glance at Chad, standing beside me. He's an excellent rider and amazing with a lasso, we know each other from cattle drives, and he has four younger siblings. He's a year older than I am, so if he escapes this year they'll all be safe. He has tesserae for all of them, though.

Without tesserae my family could have survived, but we didn't want to live starving, and so I signed up. My mom is still mad at me, but she hadn't been looking well and I felt I had to do it. I don't regret it.

I wonder for a moment what I would do if Chad were reaped. Would I volunteer? I don't think he'd want me to, but am I just telling myself that to make me feel better.?

I look up at the girl, Ricotta. She's wealthy and keeps to herself, but she's a person, and when I look at her, standing with a nervous grin atop that stage, imagining her being diced up like so much pork, it sickens me completely. I hate the Capitol. I wish they could just suddenly disappear, yes, even the women and children. I don't know how to not hate them, even though I try to love every human being and respect them.

The ridiculous 'oink' of Alasha's shoes wakes me up as she strides across to the boys bowl.

"Now for a brave young man to represent this District. May he be both as brave and good looking as Ricotta here." She dips her hand in, dramatically sifting through the papers, and pulls out a sheet. Crisply, taking her time, she unfolds it.

"Byron Calvert," she announces, shouting my name like a battle cry.

But the flourish is lost on me. I look hopelessly at Chad and shake my head. He knows what that means. 'Let me go. You're family needs you'. Sympathetically, looking like he'll cry, he embraces me in a bear hug, and lets me go.

I feel like I can't hear. Like the ground is quivering beneath me and I'm lost among a sea of ghostly faces, all whispering goodbye.

Somehow I make it to the stage without tripping, and turn to face the crowd.

A scream cuts through to my consciousness, and the sound of the familiar voice pulls me back suddenly. Vera is fighting like a mad thing with a pair of peacekeepers, but I look her in the eye and shake my head, just once. She goes limp as she looks into my eyes, and as her face crumples the rest of her seems to shrink as the peacekeepers take her back to her section. She's so strong, always has been, that the tears tracking slowly down her face make it all seem surreal like its happening to someone else.

Our names are announced and, numbly, I follow the peacekeepers into the Justice Building for my goodbyes.

I sit down in the fancy leather chair, and, finally alone, put my face into my hands and cry.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

Okay, I think, as the peacekeepers escort me through the winding halls of the Justice Building. Think, Ricotta, there's always a bright side.

I'll get to see the Capitol. Wear silks and satins. Eat like a princess.

And then you'll get to die, the negative part of my brain reminds me. For entertainment. In front of millions of people.

I push those away, and by the time my visitors arrive I've convinced myself it won't be so bad.

My family comes in, with Tobias trailing behind them. They hug me, and tell me to come home, that they believe in me, that they'll miss me.

"Don't worry," I tell them. "I'm going to get to go to the Capitol. The _CAPITOL!_ They'll let me where whatever I want, and eat whatever I want. Did you see Alasha's dress? The sparkles on her shoes? And _I_ won't be dressed as a pig." I laugh.

My whole family is staring at me in disbelief. "Are you alright, Rica?" Toby asks cautiously.

"Of course I'm fine!" I say. "Do you think that there are more colors in the Capitol than there are here? I bet it's all like those candies you got me for my birthday. Electric and exciting. I bet its not so dusty. There's probably baths whenever you want! What color dress should I wear for the interviews?"

I'm surprised they don't answer, although deep down I know I'm just in denial and being foolish. Maybe if I pretend not to care it will be easier for all of us.

But as the leave, I know one thing for sure: They need to like me. So I need to be likable.

The Games start now.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

First in, as I expected, is my family.

I wipe my eyes, and stand up, letting their emotion wash over mine. I wish that I didn't have to go, I think, feeling almost pouty. I never asked for any of this. I'm not rebellious. Why would I go? But maybe I am a little rebellious. After all, the Capitol doesn't want us nice. Niceness unites people, brings them together. Togetherness makes rebellion. But I let these thoughts go and live in the moment. For all I know it will be my last happy one until we're all together again.

I do believe that people go somewhere after they die, and that they'll see each other there. Somehow though, that thought isn't nearly as comforting when I'm facing death as an actual possibility.

I promise Rangle that I'll try to come back, and I promise my father and mother that I'll always be their boy. I can see in their eyes that they don't believe me, and I can understand why. The arena changes people. We don't come back the same. And so now, I tell them one of the hardest things I ever have.

"I'm going to try to come back," I begin, "but I'm not going to change myself. You can believe that, because to me it's more important to - to stay good, than it is to stay alive." My voice breaks, but I do really believe what I'm saying, so I continue. "I hope you understand this. I think you do, because you're the ones that taught me to love all people."

Mother has tears in her eyes, and I can't imagine how hard this must be for them. I hug her, and than father hugs us both, and Rangle comes up behind me.

"You might be my annoying little brother," he says, "but I can't wait for you to annoy me again."

I laugh a little through my tears, and when the peacekeepers come we're all still crying, but we're ready to let go of fear. I know how I have to conduct myself in these games. No nice tribute has ever won before, but there's always a first time for everything, and I've got some ideas.

Next in is Chad.

"Hey," he says. "I think we said all that really needed to be said out there, but I'm coming here anyway. And want you to know that I'll keep an eye on your family if...things don't work out."

I nod, grateful for the sentiment. Chad has always been so selfless toward me, even though he occasionally gets pushy or hyper-competitive. "Take care of yourself, Chad," I tell him. "Don't take on any bulls too big for you."

It's a running joke with us, ever since he roped a steer that dragged him off his horse and over a cactus. It definitely wasn't funny to him at the time, while he was still pulling pricklypear spines from the seat of his pants, but we've learned to laugh at it.

He laughs now, though there are tears in his eyes too, and we smile a little, cry a little, and shake hands, until it's time for him to go.

"Good luck, pardner," he tells me before the door shuts.

And then there's Vera.

I thought about saying I loved her. Confessions of affection are one of the most common things during goodbyes, and yet I don't know yet if it's true. Besides, if it is and I don't come back, then she'll always be wondering what might have been. I don't want her to spend her life in mourning, afraid to look at another guy because she wants to honor my memory. I want her to be happy so in the end, I do know what to say.

"You can have Cotton, Vera. I know you'll take care of him. He likes you."

She smiles, knowing that, though I've only had him a few days, the little lamb is my prize possession. "I know he likes me," she says. "He likes my hair ribbons too."

There goes Vera, trying to make me laugh. I do, in spite of the situation. "He likes you as more than just a food source," I argue, remembering the chewed remnants of that hair ribbon that we fished from the lambs mouth. "Really, Vera. He does like you. I want you to feed him up, let him grow, take good care of him."

"You know I will, Byron," she says. Something flickers in her eyes and she opens her mouth to form a word, but by the time it slips out it's become a simple "Goodbye."

For a moment, I wonder what she was going to say, but I refuse to press her. "Goodbye, Vera," I say, and shake her hand. She shakes it back, squeezing it a little harder and longer than she needs to. Then she's gone.

And I'm the one wondering what might have been.


	13. Spunky and Inventive - District 11

**District 11 Reaping**

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

"Shhh," Fawn whispers. "Stay low." Dawn, Susan and I nod, then crawl forward through the tall grass. What we are doing is probably stupid and definitely dangerous, but when Fawn suggested it, how could I say no?

We all work in the orchards after school every day, and all day on the weekends, so I was a little surprised when she suggested we go there today. I didn't see the point, until she explained we were going to go in and _through_ , to where the blackberry patches are. The berry fields are on the other side of the orchards, a good three miles, and I've only been there during the harvest. We aren't allowed to eat the berries ourselves.

But on Reaping Day, the security is a little laxer. Most of the peacekeepers are in town, setting up the screens and cameras from the Capitol. Fawn is quite adventurous, so I can see why she thought today might be the day for some risk taking.

We slide forward on our bellies through the tall grass until we are in among the neat rows of apple trees. The earth is moist and damp from the sprinkler systems that irrigate the fields, and under the leaves it is earthy-smelling and cool. Safe beneath the branches we rise to our hands and knees, crawling until we reach near the center of the field. The towers that keep watch are only along the edges so now we stand up, brushing the dirt from our knees. None of us are in our Reaping Clothes yet, but it still wouldn't do to come home all caked with mud. We might get asked uncomfortable questions.

Fawn leads the way, Dawn following her. The twins are nearly exactly alike, the same dark brown eyes and skin, same short kinky hair tied up with rags, and the same skinny bodies. The skinniness is shared with Susan and me, as with everyone in our district. I am better fed than some, there being only two children in my family. My parents married when they were in their thirties, and so my momma's body stopped bearing children soon after my sister Delilah was born. This is rare for families in Eleven. Most marry young, and have many children. With all those mouths to feed, and the rules so harsh and the pay so low, it's small wonder we struggle to feed ourselves. I've had to take tesserae for my family to eat as well as we do, and Delilah will probably take some when she turns twelve in two years. That doesn't swing the odds against me though, since most children have far more tesserae than I.

Susan looks a little nervous, and I too am shaking with excitement as we come to a stop. The most dangerous part of the crawl is now, where we have to slip between the two towers. We simply sprint through, and we get lucky as no challenge comes from either side. Safe, we find a cave of brambles and crawl inside, stripping handfuls of the juicy berries and stuffing them into our mouths. My chin turns purple with the dripping juice as we laugh and talk, our mouths full of the sun ripened deliciousness.

Dawn looks glad she came. She was skeptical at first, not wanting to get in trouble, but now her eyes shine as she eats the delicious fruit.

Then comes the sound we've all been dreading: The crunch of heavy peacekeeper boots.

"Split up," Fawn whispers, and we do. Susan and I crawl off one direction while Dawn and Fawn go in the other.

No commotion comes, and so I figure the twins must have gotten away. Susan and I reach the towers and sprint between them, continuing all the way through the orchard and to the houses. Neat rows of shacks with corrugated metal roofs and faded walls make up the living quarters for most of the District. Sprawling fields and the occasional warehouse break up the green. Toward the center, past the living part of the town, are the canneries and processing plants. In the middle is the Justice Building.

Almost all the architecture here is drab and gray and uniform, like a military base from the Dark Days. Susan and I split up, agreeing to meet in front of the twins' house and walk to the Reaping together. Then I head down the street toward my house.

It's on the end of the row, so we have a shorter walk to the fields but a longer walk to the school than the rest of the district. None of the houses here are pretty, but I like to think that with the lace curtains my momma's sister gave her, it's at least above average. The sight of the curtains makes me feel a little sick though, when I think about their backstory. My family is lucky to be intact ourselves, but none of my aunts or uncles are still alive. Most people barely make it past sixty, and that's what's happened to my poppa's siblings - he was the youngest in his family - but my momma's little sister was a different story.

Her oldest girl got reaped a few years back, and died in the bloodbath. Aunt Katri single-handedly stormed the Justice Building, demanding justice for her dead child. Her husband tried to bring her back, but before he could talk some sense into her word got down to the peacekeepers. They didn't ask any questions, and after a few shots all that was left of my momma's family was a group funeral.

I was five when it happened, and I wish I'd been younger. Thankfully I hardly remember, but just knowing it happened is enough. The worst part is, it happens pretty frequently, or things like it.

Pushing back the uncomfortable memories I enter the house and head upstairs, breathing a sigh of relief that momma wasn't there to see my blackberry stained clothes. She doesn't really approve of some of the things Fawn gets me to do in the name of adventure. She likes Susan a lot though, since she's always laughing and never gets dangerous ideas.

The washtub in the upstairs bathroom is full, and since it's the height of a summer afternoon I don't mind the freezing water. Nothing's heated here, and only a few places have running water. I have to fill the water barrel at the town pump every day before school.

I climb into the tub, being careful not to get cut on the rusty edges. My hair is braided tightly in cornrows like most of the girls here, and I have to rub hard to work the slimy, lavender-scented soap into my hair. I wash behind my ears and then scrub down the rest of my body with a soapy rag, before dumping a bucket of fresh water over my head to get the soap off. That way I won't itch later.

There's a scratchy towel in the corner, slightly damp from Delilah's bath earlier today, and I dry my body thoroughly before taking my Reaping dress off the hook. It's new, since I had my growth spurt last year and the old one didn't fit. It's a plain tan color, but my momma embroidered little pink roses around the neck and the cuffs of the short puffed sleeves. She made a headband to match, and both go well with the anklet Susan gave me when I turned twelve.

I bend down now, checking to make sure that the strip of leather is tied tightly and won't slip off my foot. Beaded in all the colors of the rainbow, it's the most beautiful thing I own except my dress. Susan and I both have matching hats and belts that we wove out of straw, and I put mine on now. It looks nice, but when I look in the chipped mirror I can't help but think it dwarfs my head. Frowning, I wonder how to fix this.

the answer is simple. One at a time I undo my braids so that my hair hangs in thick curls around my face. It helps me not looks so thin and pinched, and my eyes look soft and gentle instead of haunting. My hair is lighter at the tips, and now happy with my appearance, I head downstairs for breakfast.

Momma is showing Delilah how to make gingerbread, but she can't seem to really figure it out and is now just watching as momma cuts out the last of the little ginger-men. By the smells floating through the kitchen, I can tell that some are already baking. It takes a half hour or so for them to finish, and during that time Poppa comes down from upstairs. He was getting a little extra rest, since he'll have to go back to the fields tomorrow. Right now he looks well rested and strong, and I hug him. He hugs me back. I can tell he's very worried about me though from how tense his shoulders are.

Putting most of the cookies onto a plate to eat at supper, momma covers them with a cloth to keep the flies away. Then she lays out lunch while Delilah sets the table. We're eating fairly light today, saving the real feasting for when we're home safe, but the meal is still scrumptious by everyday standards.

Bowls of polenta, apples, and a gingerbread cookie east are a lot more than I usually eat, and at least twice as much as the fare for most of the district. My stomach pinches with sympathy, but I eat my food anyway. I wish I could help the others, but there really just isn't a way. Momma does do a little free help with doctoring, helping sew up cuts, treat tracker jacker stings, and deliver babies - stuff like that. I've learned a bit myself, and I hope to carry it on and help her someday. I'm not squeamish and, though rambunctious, everyone says I have a caring heart.

I sigh as I scrape the last bits of polenta from my plate, steeling myself for the ordeal ahead. Though this is a large district with many separate towns, I live in the biggest one. We are very close knit and, chances are, this year's tributes will be people I know. Please not Susan or Dawn or Fawn...

the list in my head continues to roll as I put on my sandals and head for the door, holding Delilah's hand. I have to fight back tears.

What sort of monster rules our nation? How could _anyone_ be so cruel?

* * *

 **Shahid Howe, 13**

 **District 11 Male**

* * *

"Shahid, I think I found something!"

I look up from the scrap pile I've been digging through, and find Linus waving to me excitedly. I push myself up from the ground and walk across to where he stands. This better be good. Linus gets over excited, and he's constantly pulling me away from what I'm working on. We're good friends though, because we share the same goals.

District 11 is the worst district ever. Agreed. We wish we lived in District 3. Agreed. We like inventing stuff. Agreed. Money is the goal. Agreed. Our families don't appreciate our interests. Agreed.

Yup, the list goes on and on.

I reach him, and he pulls excitedly at the huge chunk of rusting metal buried among the odds and ends of the dump. It looks like it's a piece of metal roofing, perhaps three feet square, and seems to be in good condition. Excited now, I grab the edge and help him to haul it out. The shifting footing of the refuse pile makes it quite difficult, and our skinny bodies don't offer much leverage.

At last the sheet tugs free. I stumble backward, not expecting it to suddenly give way like that. Scrambling to my feet, I survey the prize excitedly. There's plenty of strong metal here, just ready to be made into whatever we want. Maybe I could use it as a housing over the engine, or...

The next thing I know, strong arms are pulling me around and pinning my hands to my sides. There's a cry of terror from Linus and he tries to bolt but peacekeepers seize on him to. I'm released, and next thing I know I'm looking into an obnoxious freckled face topped by a curly mop of red hair. It's Patroclus, the most annoying though not the most powerful peacekeeper in the district. He's obsessed with getting promoted, and for that reason he's anxious to enforce every little rule and regulation there is.

"Look Gaius, it's the inventors again," he says, laughing.

The other man, who I now recognize, laughs too. "Haven't we told you boys this ain't District 3?"

I stay sullenly silent, and now Patroclus gets angry.

"Answer me!" he roars. "have we or have we not?"

I decide to play the sullen obedience card. "Yes sir."

Then why are you here again, I'd like to know," Gaius chips in.

"I was looking for..." I pause, trying to come up with a suitable lie, but nothing is forthcoming, so I resign myself to telling them the truth. "Some sheet metal. You see, I had this idea: If I could make harvesting faster and easier, we would have more time..." I pause again to think of a suitable bit of Capitol buttering-up I can do, as much as I hate it. "...to focus on becoming an outstanding district that can better help and honor the Capitol. We might even start winning some Hunger Games!"

The two burst out laughing. "Keep on dreaming, pipsqueaks. Now, get!"

My hands ball into fists, and for a moment I'm more than ready to charge and punch in their guffawing faces, but Linus pulls me back and leads me away, still internally seething. One thing I know for sure: Once he and I get the recognition we deserve, the first thing I'm going to do is spit in Patroclus' smug little eye.

More calm, Linus and I part ways once we reach the town. It's one of the farther out towns in the district, and we'll need to eat before we take the train. I feel a tear sting my eye. I don't even have a special outfit to wear to the Reaping. The worst part of it is, my Momma's a seamstress and my brother Kaheel also likes to sew. With two people stitching, you'd think we might be able to afford clothes, right? Wrong. Even with tesserae, and my dad in the fields from sun-up to sun-down and sometimes later, we can't make ends meet. Kaheel's big and strong. If he'd get down to working on something worthwhile, maybe we'd amount to something.

Humph. Some kind of nineteen year old guy who likes to sew while his little brother starves.

Inside I can hear them working now in the other room, but I notice a sandwich sitting on the table. It's just our everyday coarse rye bread and a sheet of turkey, with the thinnest layer of goat cheese possible. Well, at least I'm not entirely forgotten.

I go out behind the house and slump against the rough wall, finally releasing the tears that want to flow. The food tastes wooden in my mouth as I eat, but I force myself to chew and swallow, chew and swallow. Finished, I go to the pump and wash my face, erasing the tears and dust. Then I walk to the train station.

Momma said she wanted to come, but she and Kaheel had an order from the mayor's wife and needed to get it done. Poppa's off somewhere, probably talking with friends. When the train comes, I board it, wishing I didn't have to face the Reaping alone.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

Susan and her family are waiting in front of the twins' house and their families by the time we leave the house. Momma immediately starts talking with Susan's parents, and Poppa talks too. We girls all walk together a little ways ahead. Though we do speak, all the conversation is more subdued than usual. Normally we'd be laughing and joking, or singing folk songs, but everyone is much too tense. At least we were able to eat before we left.

Some of the children that have to ride the train in won't be so lucky. In fact, many of them probably won't even have their parents with them, the people choosing to stay at home and rest. If they're picked, they won't even get to say goodbye. But wasn't I just hoping that an outer town child would be reaped?

It's awful the way the Games turn us against each other.

As the last latecomers arrive and get signed in, the video for the Capitol starts. That's probably why they have the Games, to prevent another rebellion. If we don't trust one another, the districts will never be coordinated enough to actually do something like bring down the Capitol.

Realizing that with all my thinking I haven't been paying attention, I look up at the stage. Along with our mayor are the victors of District 11. There's Chaff, who won the Games when he was seventeen. He lost a hand and, according to my mother, has turned to alcohol since he won. As I glance down the row of faces, I know that they all must be suffering terribly from the things they've seen. We have more victors than some of the outer districts, since we know how to feed ourselves, but I'm not sure that's a good thing. I've never seen a happy victor.

Our escort this year has huge gold earrings and is wearing a sparkly green dress with an apple on the shoulder, as well as heavy makeup. In some ways, I actually think she looks rather pretty.

All thoughts of past games and crazy costumes are struck from my mind as the Reaping becomes real. It's time to pick the names. She reaches down, her hand in a fist, then pauses it a second before touching the paper. Slowly, she opens her fingers and grasps a piece of paper, then elegantly unfolds it, reading the name to herself. Once she knows it, she lowers the paper and stares out over the crowd, white teeth flashing in her dark face.

"Capri Kane!"

No. Everything I've ever feared, everything I've ever hated. Death is bad. The Capitol is bad. Victory is bad. The Games are bad.

A tear of terror runs down my cheek as peacekeepers nudge me forward. Sobbing, I make my way to the stage. All the things I hate I'm going to be right down in. I never, ever thought it would be me. There are thousands of kids here, older ones with more tesserae than me. but it doesn't matter. None of the odds matter.

Because it was my name that came out of the bowl.

Something about accepting that seems to calm me, and now I stare out over the crowd. The least I can do is show my family that I'm not afraid. This has to be as easy for them as possible, especially Delilah.

Thinking only of them, I dry my tears and muster a smile.

* * *

 **Shahid Howe, 13**

 **District 11 Male**

* * *

Great. Another young tribute.

Why are Eleven's tributes so often young? It ought to be the other way around. The older kids have more slips, but it always seems to be the young ones. I asked my momma about it once. I told her what I think, that is, that the Reapings are rigged so that it's the young kids, to punish us for the rebellion. District 11 is still uneasy, and I think that the Capitol is afraid of us, so they make us suffer more. Momma said I was just cynical, but I saw in her eyes that she thought I was right.

Panem is such a _ghastly_ country.

I hardly ever feel sorry for anyone, and I don't know this girl at all, but at the same time I do feel for her just a little. I can see the terror on her face, and the way she's looking for help. Her family must be here.

Our escort moves back toward the boys ball.

"Now, which courageous gentleman will it be? The answer is...Shahid Howe."

How could it be me? To young kids in one year? It doesn't make any sense. A pair of peacekeepers start to move toward me, and I realize that it doesn't matter if it makes sense or not. My name came out of the bowl, therefore I'm going to the Hunger Games. That's the immediate problem. Right now, I need to get away.

I pivot on my heel and bolt, but the thick crowds make running impossible and I'm collared after only a few strides. I'm so small and short that I'm lifted right off the ground as the peacekeepers drag me to the stage, struggling and squirming like a worm. This is worse than anything that's ever happened to me.

But maybe, just maybe, I can turn it to my advantage?

That's it! Who's the wealthiest person in District 11? Seeder Howell, Chaff Mitchell, Harvyst Callum and the other Victors, that's who. If I find a way to win these Games, I'll be so filthy rich I won't even have to worry about inventing things ever again. Those houses in the Village are so big, both my family _and_ Linus' could live there! It's not like I don't have any skills. I get good marks in school, so I'm smart. I've worked in the fields, so I'm tough. I know how to find food, and be hungry if I can't. Maybe, just maybe, there's a way?

I look out over the sea of faces in front of me, knowing that there's no money here for anyone to sponsor me. But if I make the Capitol like me then I'll get gifts from them, or if I team up with a popular tribute...

The racing of my mind takes my thoughts away from the fear of the moment, and I stand quietly as Azade, the escort, trumpets our names to there world. The crowd claps, but it sounds fake and hollow. Why put up a facade of liking the Games? None of us do, anyway. It's so obvious that all we do is endure them. That's what I do when I get to the arena.

As we enter the Justice Building, I realize there's one more thing I'm going to have to endure.

My family isn't here.

I'm going to have to face this journey alone, and if I die, I'll never have seen them again.

The peacekeepers leave me alone, and suddenly I'm a thirteen year old without anyone to say they want me to come back. My visions of victory dim, leaving the room cold and empty, except for the echoing of my sobs.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

The door behind me slams shut. Boom.

It's sound echoes across the walls of the massive room in which I stand. A leather chair stands in the middle, looking lonely. I curl up, feeling very small, and wait for my family to come.

When they do, the room is immediately brighter. I fly to my parents arms, letting my brave act crumple as I sob into the shoulders. In all likelihood, I will never see them again. No fourteen year old has ever won in the history of the Games. Momma and Poppa hug me, the way they did when I was little and would wake up with nightmares of dying under the spears or swords of that years tributes.

Only this year the nightmare is real, and no amount of hugs or denial is going to change that.

I wipe the tears away, once again mastering myself. Delilah is frightened seeing me cry, and I have to make this as easy for her as possible. We whisper our love to one another, enjoying the last few minutes I have left. I show them my anklet, telling them that it will be my token, my link back to them.

"I will not forget," I promise, "the happiness here. It might be hard living in this district sometimes, but it's my home and you're my family. I swear that I will do my best and come home to you. I swear it!"

After more hugs, the peacekeepers drag them away. With one last heart-wrenching sob, Delilah disappears. I fear that I have seen my little sister for the last time on this earth.

Then the gang of girls comes in, sobbing and hugging harder even than Delilah. Fawn wraps her skinny arms around my neck, and Dawn follows her lead.

"It's okay," I tell them. "I'm going to try to come back, and if I don't, we don't want to remember this, or whatever you might see on that screen. We want to remember the good times we had. The laughter and the fun, like the time you rescued that little puppy, Fawn, and it peed on you?"

Fawn smiles slightly, remembering. That dog is still going strong, though horrendously skinny.

"Or the time that we went swimming in the water hole, and you got a tadpole down your shirt," Susan reminds. "You screamed so loud, I thought you'd been bit by an alligator at the least."

Now it's my turn to giggle. The jokes and tears mingle as we do our bests to be happy, and to remember that, no matter what happens, this existence is only fleeting. Whether we die young or at a ripe old age, there is always the next life, where we can be reunited.

I've always believed that, and I know that that belief is all that will sustain me over the coming weeks.


	14. Pretender and Detached - District 12

**District 12 Reaping**

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

The needle slides through the smooth silk a little faster than I'm used to, and straight into my finger. _Not again._ I purse my lips in annoyance, jerking the thread through and out the hole. A small drop of blood lands on the fabric and I drop the needle in exasperation, sticking my sore finger in my mouth.

This is _not_ what I'm supposed to be doing right now. I'm the one that runs the errands, makes the sales, does the deliveries, picks up the supplies...not the seamstress. That's the job my mother does, and my sisters help her with it. I'm just more athletic and out there, and this job _is not for me._ Well, I suppose I have only myself to blame. After all, I'm the one who convinced Mayor Ratchett's wife that she needed a new dress for the Reaping. What I didn't expect was that we'd get behind schedule, and I'd be stuck putting in the last bits of hand stitching for the button holes.

It's lucky that I was able to get the buttons in the first place. Then again, it wasn't really that hard. All I had to do was tell Dana, the button maker's girl, that I'd seen her make off with a piece of ribbon. Everything I told her was technically true. I saw her steal the ribbon. The punishment for stealing is ten lashes. What I didn't tell her, and what's budding into a nice little guilt flower right now is that the stealing penalties haven't been harshly enforced since before I was born. Nobody cares what we do in District 12 as long as we don't rebel, and we're much to hungry for that.

Well, most of us that is. Being the daughter of the only decent seamstress in town, and with good looks, charm, and an eye for business, I've helped make sure that neither I, my three sisters, nor anyone else in my family, goes hungry.

Feeding us should have been my father's job, but when he got himself whipped and then ran off that pretty much was out of the question. Ends are still meeting though, what with four girls old enough to take tesserae and all.

One thing is sure: If he comes back, I'll give him an earful, ladylike or not.

Being a lady isn't exactly overrated, I should know that since I could have my choice of the peacekeepers and merchant's sons whenever I wanted, but sometimes being sweet and proper is hard. This is Panem, and morality is a bit ambiguous here. I'm no different. I do what I have to to survive, nothing more, nothing less. Even if that includes blackmailing a girl over a stolen ribbon.

I sigh. Three whole days and that's still rankling. It really shouldn't be. I've batted my eyes at the right peacekeepers, and told the rich women the things they want to hear ever since I can remember. Manipulation is my strong suit, even if I don't like it, and any talent in Twelve can't afford to be ignored. The starving teenagers that hang around some of the older peacekeepers and our mayor know that only to well. I'm just lucky that I still own myself.

But I want to be good. Really I do. I try and try, but what can you do when it's your badness keeping your family alive, fed, and clothed.

I sigh, and set back to work on the dress. It's beautiful, navy-blue velvet with white ivory buttons shaped like roses. Buttons are a gorgeous and essential part of any fancy dress, but boy do they take forever to sew on.

Finally the last stitch is in, the last thread tied off, and I sit back and survey my work.

Beautiful.

Too bad that it's for somebody else. Happily, we're being well compensated. Since my sisters and I have tesserae, the money will make sure we have milk and vegetables and maybe even a little meat to go with our bread. I know that Nat Everdeen, one of the coal miner kids, hunts in the woods. He'd be sure to sell me some fish or dandelion greens quite cheap.

I'm already working the details for various trades when the clock on the wall chimes one o'clock. Time to get ready for the Reaping.

My stomach twists with anxiety. District 12 is tiny, and I will surely know the child who dies this year. Likely it will be a starving Seam child, with too many tesserae in an effort to feed a large family. There are way to many of those here. Selfishly, I'm glad there are. The more kids with lots of tesserae they are, the more the odds swing in my favor. It's true that things have been better here since Haymitch Abernathy won the latest Quarter Quell, but already the brief burst of well-being our district saw during his victory year is beginning to fade away.

It's cruel how the Capitol rewards us for only a year, making the return to hunger afterwards only more unbearable. Not only that, but the reason we're being rewarded is because one of our citizens became a murderer.

The morbid thoughts refuse to go away as I slide an ash-gray dress over my head. Thankfully it's new, as I'm the oldest girl in my family. My younger sisters will have to wear some of my cast-offs after they finish bathing. I can hear Scarlett and Cobalt splashing in the bathtub now, probably soaking each other and the floor with water. My sisters never will learn.

The door opens and I turn hastily, still hastening to button the front of my dress.

"It's okay, just me," an amused voice says.

I turn, relieved. Just my sister Obsidian. In a small house like the ones in District 12, it is not unusual to get walked in on by a friend or family member while dressing, and I take precautions accordingly.

"Would you like a hand with your hair?" she asks.

My hand flies to my head and I nod, realizing I'd completely forgotten to brush it. I must look a half-dressed mess. Obsidian is a year younger than me, but sometimes she feels like an older sibling. She's very creative, and draws most of the patterns for our nicer clothes. She's also quiet and responsible, caring and sharing, all qualities I admire but struggle with.

I nod to her as she sits me down, running our wooden comb through my hair. It hurts as it pulls through tangles, but I clench my teeth and bear it. After all, she's only trying to help me. She twists the stands into a waterfall braid, much nicer than the slightly frizzy ones I do. Then she ties it with a white silk ribbon.

It was the last thing my father gave me before he disappeared, and while I hate him for leaving, I do miss him. I think he really did love us, he just couldn't stand to stay here after he was humiliated in front of the whole district by a beating. Probably he ran away alone to keep from dragging us down with him. The ribbon and my name. That is all I have left of him.

We're all named after metals or minerals found when mining, and they were his choices.

Pushing away the sentimentality, I tell myself that, realistically, he's not coming back.

Then I head downstairs, hoping mom cooked something special for our Reaping Day lunch.

* * *

 **Liam Cox, 14**

 **District 12 Male**

* * *

Bread. Yay. I've never eaten _that_ before.

Only practically every day, since my father works as extra help at the bakery and has first dibs on the day-old stuff. It makes me angry, honestly. The mines pay better, no matter the risks, and they're where practically everyone works. I don't see why my family has to be different.

Or why I have to be different.

And yet different is what my parents say I've been, ever since I fell off the table as a toddler. I wish they'd stop going on about it. I mean, how clear can a toddler's personality traits be anyway? I suppose it doesn't matter.

I crunch into the piece of slightly stale toast, letting the thin veneer of egg over the top be the dominant flavor. Eggs are expensive, and I might as well make the best of the opportunity to eat one. Maybe Mabel will have some sweets for me at the Reaping. If she does, then I could trade them at the old warehouse...

My mind races with ideas. Mabel's one of the many girls to catch my fancy, and arguably the best yet. I suppose it's odd for a boy my age to be so, well, flirtatious, but why not start early? Besides, she's the daughter of the sweet shop owner, so being her sweetheart has definite advantages. She's my sweetshop sweetheart. Ha ha.

Candy can always be traded too, for more important things. There's an old warehouse that fell into disuse a few years ago, and it's a little ways outside the town. It's just about the best place for striking non government-sanctioned deals that there is. Nat Everdeen, the hunting boy, usually has things to trade there. I wish I was as brave as he is. I'm certainly sly enough to sneak out through the fence without being seen, but I'd be much too terrified to do anything once I was out. After all, Nat has a bow and I don't.

How he ever figured the way to make one is beyond me. Maybe if I stockpiled enough trade items he'd show me...

The toast finished, I head upstairs and put on faded gray pants with a green t-shirt. As one of the few one-child families in the district, we ought to be wealthier, but like I said, being the baker's help doesn't pay well. I have tesserae, not that I care. Plenty of kids have a bunch of siblings and take extra slips for them too. Well, the sooner I leave for the Reaping the sooner it'll be over with, I think, heading downstairs and tapping my foot as I wait for my parents to finish getting ready. I can hear my mother crying, and my father trying to comfort her.

They hate the hunger Games, my parents do. I get that they're violent, but my mom doesn't have to tell me they're bad and turn them off whenever she can. They're something to watch at least, and since my only friend is a boy named Sean I have plenty of time to kill. I shouldn't even say Sean and I are friends. More like we talk to each other occasionally. He has a way with girls, and I've picked up a few tips on that.

Finished with their sentimentality, my parents head for the door. I am out in the street before they even reach the threshold.

"Liam, wait," my mother calls, her voice still a little quavery.

I slow down, resisting the urge to simply ignore her. Everyone's a little ragged today, and I suppose I can let her have her way for a bit.

Once we reach the square and sign in, I am struck by how much better everything looks. Head Peacekeeper Pruitt must have had people working their tails off to spruce up our ugly square. It's even worse than Eleven's crumbling old thing. Heck, it's almost as bad as Thirteen's bombed out shell.

Now, though, the stones and streets are swept. Banners and orderly peacekeepers moving about add a certain air of dignity.

they're not nearly as dignified up close as my finger is pricked for the sign in. I shake my hand out ruefully, sticking it in my mouth to stop the bleeding. Urgh. Couldn't they just have us sign our names?

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

Fern and Mary Kay are only a few people ahead in the line for sign-ins as my family reaches the square. The people behind them nod their assent as I ask to cut in, and I step into the line with my friends.

Fern's normal goofy grin and humorous sparkle is gone from his face, and he looks nervous. I suppose he has to be goofy, seeing as he's named after a girl, his mom's crazy, and his dad a weakling. It's probably a coping mechanism. Sometimes I feel almost jealous of his name, seeing as how his parents named him after Fern Calloway. She was our first victor, winning the 12th Hunger Games long before I was born. Along with our young and already drunk Haymitch Abernathy, she rounds out the full population of our Victor's Village.

She's old now, but still has some of the vivacity of her young days. How she's done it is beyond me. I saw all the recaps out of curiosity once, and her best friend was actually reaped into the Hunger Games the year after Fern won. Dusk didn't win, and how Fern bore it I don't know.

If Mary Kay or my Fern died, I think I'd be entitled to a major freakout.

A major freakout is welling up now as Fern heads for the boys' section, managing to flash me a smile and a wave. Mary Kay walks with me to the girls' section, and we link hands, clinging to one another for mutual support as the escort and mayor, along with the victors, take the stage. The escort has quite the look this year, in sparkles so neon yellow they practically burn my eyeballs. She needs some fashion help. Really, she should talk to my sister.

The mayor's wife is much nicer looking, in the new dress that I delivered right after lunch. The style is plainer, more practical, and just generally more attractive. Perhaps she bought it from us to impress her husband. After all, Fern says that some of the younger merchant women have made frequent "deliveries" to his house, and stayed much longer than was proper. He's convinced they stayed for more than tea, and I agree that the possibility is legitimate.

Then the terrible video of the Dark Days is gratingly announced by our escort, telling us of all the terrible things we've done. Not one of us believes a word of it, and every one of us knows there's nothing we can do about it. I do my best to close my eyes and ears to the lies.

But eventually I have no choice but to listen, as the video ends and Purnelia Snowbell, as her name apparently is, takes center stage.

"Ladies and germs," she begins, pausing as though for a laugh.

Personally, I don't think it's funny. Maybe if Fern said it it would be, but coming from this woman who really does look like she thinks she needs to wash her hands should she accidentally touch one of us, the humor falls on deaf ears.

Forging ahead, she continues: "I believe it is general protocol to start with the women?"

Obviously knowing the answer, she goes to the Reaping Bowl before the crowd has a chance to nod. then she dips in her hand.

Her fingers are long and white, with nails painted a deep bronze. Jewels sparkle on her many ringed hands. Then she delicately pinches a slip and lifts it from the bowl, unfolding it delicately but without any real ceremony.

"Alabast-" she begins, but I don't have to hear anymore.

Pretend it's not real, I tell myself, moving toward the stage before she even finishes my name. It's all a game. Hunger _Games,_ right?

All the same, I know as she announces my name that pretending is going to get a lot harder once I have bloodthirsty kids trying their best to kill me as slowly and painfully as possible.

* * *

 **Liam Cox, 14**

 **District 12 Male**

* * *

Alabaster. Yep, I know her. The one with the weird name that sounds right out of the luxury district. She'll have her taste of luxury in the Capitol, alright.

Purnelia heads for the boys bowl, and I scrouch down in my coat.

Just a few more minutes, Liam, I tell myself. Then you can go home, eat, and just enjoy the show. Forget you ever met Alabaster Parker. Forget you ever thought her sister Scarlett was cute. Forget she ever threw a rock at you when she saw you two together...

But I won't be going home.

Because Purnelia just drew my name.

I know the others heard it too the instant my mother screams, collapsing in a faint. My father rushes to her, gathering her up and calling her name softly. I glance over at him and flash him a small smile, letting him know to take care of her. I won't mind if he doesn't visit me in the Justice Building. I can deal with this, just like I deal with anything else.

I march to the stage, staring straight ahead. I'll take this one step at a time, and let nothing rattle me. After all, nothing is impossible if you try, and, being unafraid, I am very well equipped to do just that.

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

How is that little boy so calm? He'll be dead sooner than I will, and no District 12 tribute lasts long anyway!

I shake hands with him, still wondering, and then allow the peacekeepers to drag me away. This isn't right! I want to scream as they deposit me on the chair in the room where I will say a last goodbye to my friends and family. No. No, no, no.

My mother enters, and I cry, unwilling to look at her. My sisters watch me silently. I don't want to touch them, talk to them, or even look at them. This isn't fair. I've done so much, sacrificed so much, to keep my family alive. Who's going to do the bargaining, run errands, trade with Nat? Have I ever even told them about him? I relax, realizing that yes, I've mentioned him to Obsidian. Well, at least they won't starve. That'll be a comforting remembrance as I bleed out in the arena, right?

The thought sends a fresh wave of tears, and then my mother sits down, squeezing herself into the chair next to me.

"Hush," she says, gathering me onto her lap and stroking my hair.

I curl in on myself. I'm much to big for her to be holding me, but it feels so good, so good. I surrender, not caring how it looks, and reach my arms up around her neck, burying my face in her chest. The rough fabric of her dress scratches my cheek, and as slowly as the gentle touches of her hand on my head, my sobs quiet.

Sitting up, I take a shuddering breath. "I'm okay now," I say. "You guys will be okay too. Obsidian, I've told you about Nat, make sure you keep up the trades with him. He's a fair guy, and he won't cheat you. Mom...take care of them."

"Of course I will," she whispers. "You're my children. I'll always take care of you."

I wish I could believe that, but she wasn't thinking when she said that and it brings on a new sob that I can't conceal. "Not in the arena," I say, my voice small.

"Even in the arena," she says. "I'm your mother. You're of my flesh and blood. Every time you think of home, every time you look at your reflection, every time you remember something I taught you. I'll be there."

The thought is comforting, and I hug them one at a time, then sit quietly as Obsidian fixes my hair, ruined in my stormy outburst. It'll be the last time she ever does it, and probably my stylist will change me so much that the me I'm used to will disappear. And yet all the same, the touch of her sure, nimble fingers calms me, until I almost feel I could go to sleep.

When I leave the building to board the train and the cameras come out, I'm ready.


	15. Friends and Foes - Train Tribute List

**Here is the list of who will be appearing on the trains. There will be one tribute from each district, two districts per chapter. Those should start coming out late this week or early next week. Also, thank you all so much for helping my story reach 100 reviews! Seriously, you guys are amazing.**

* * *

 **Official Train Tributes**

* * *

Atalanta Bliss, representing District 1.

Mercury Medall, representing District 2.

Danny Sparks, representing District 3.

Enzo Garrix, representing District 4.

Zita Moreno, representing District 5.

Venna Wilcox, representing District 6.

Emmett McLean, representing District 7.

Pixie Castellano, representing District 8.

Cristina Booker, representing District 9.

Byron Calvert, representing District 10.

Capri Kane, represnenting District 11.

Alabaster Parker, representing District 12.

* * *

 **Final Notes: Yes, I know there's a lot more girls than boys. That's just who got voted for. The only change I made was to tell D3 from Danny's point of view rather than Wilhelmina's. He's a much more relatable character to a lot of people. The poll is now closed. Thank you all for voting, enjoy the trains!**


	16. Preparation and Gluttony - 1 & 2 Trains

**Districts 1 and 2 Trains**

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

My fingers fiddle agitatedly with the purple streak in my hair. Four years ago today, I was the one standing on the steps by the station, waving with a smile on my face as the train pulled away, carrying my brother Paion. I was fourteen then, but it feels like I was much younger. Many naivetes have been purged from me in the past years, starting with Paion dying in a welter of blood that year.

I bite my lip as the train begins to hum slightly, moving out. My boyfriend Norcin gives a last thumbs up and I return with a smile before we are going too fast and I have to shut the window. I throw myself down on the velvet lounge at the back of the train with a sigh. There's no going back now.

Moments later I spring back to my feet, as unwilling to sit still on the couch as I am to stay standing, looking out the window. My lips still tingle where Norcin kissed me. With the motivation that declaration of commitment gave me, I absolutely have to win this. My chances of dying must be tiny, even though the technical odds are 24:1. Most of those kids won't have any idea how to use a weapon, nor will they have alliances. _Not kids,_ I correct myself. _Rebels._ They are uncouth and crass and don't appreciate the favors the Capitol gives. Just because they're young doesn't mean they're innocent.

Thankfully, Thisbe enters just in time to pull me out of my emotional turmoil. Her silver hair sparkles as she turns, motioning to the tables of decadent refreshments laid out in the sitting room.

"Eat something, Atalanta," Thisbe says, sounding concerned.

I wonder why. After all, we just ate breakfast less than two hours ago, and my stomach is still settling after my rather emotional morning. I still wish I hadn't cried in the Justice Building. When I entered the train they must have captured my face on camera. It shouldn't be _too_ difficult to fix my image since the Capitol trusts the every word of a career tribute. I'll just tell them my boyfriend was very excited for me and we got a little emotional...yeah, that should work.

Beginning to relax, I walk over to the table of delicacies ranged along one wall. There are all sorts of scrumptious looking things, and maybe just trying a _teensy_ bit would be nice. I reach for a cake frosted like a delicate rose, but a hand reaches down and grabs my wrist before I reach it.

I stiffen and twist my arm, and the assailant gives a small cry before releasing me. Whipping around, I come face to face with Caspar Ophir.

"What was that about?" I snap.

He lowers his hands in a placating gesture. "You need to relax," he says. "I was about to offer you this."

Sinking to one knee in an exaggerated display of chivalry, he proffers the cake I was eyeing on his palm. I snatch it and cram a big bit in my mouth, showing how little I care for his ridiculous antics. Speaking with my mouth full so that crumbs spray in his eyes, I answer back.

"I don't know what you're trying to do, Ophir, but I do know that back in our district your reputation is less than savory. There's no chivalry in the Games, and you know it. Don't pretend you don't. I trust you less then a snake, and they're famous for having forked tongues."

Satisfied that my answer was satisfactorily crushing, I leave and head into the girls' side of the car. I'll be sharing the sitting room with my mentor, and each of us has our own bedroom and bathroom. Caspar will share his side with the male mentor.

I pause with my hand on the knob of the sitting room. Voices come from inside, but after a moment I can tell that they are the slightly tinny sounds of a television set. Versace must be already there, watching the Reapings of the other districts. I might as well join her, I think, smoothing my skirt and stepping inside.

Versace nods as I enter. She is tall and strong at thirty-nine, and still looks much the same as when she won her Games at the age of sixteen. Same honey-blonde hair, same lithe, attractive form. Only her face is different. Her eyes are harder, and her lips seem permanently pursed. She's nice though, as long as you're motivated. Slackers tend to think she's evil, and she is, to them, anyway. I've always admired her. She won the 31st Games, using a javelin and her wits. She didn't have the most kills ever, but boy was she a well-rounded fighter. As a spear user myself, I always dreamed of her mentoring me. And now, here we are.

I take a seat beside her on the couch, leaning back into the soft fabric. Then, I stiffen as the seal of District 8 flashes up on the screen. I want to see the faces of my primary targets.

After the usual formalities, their ridiculous looking escort draws the girls name. I lean forward excitedly. Rose Castellano, the girl, looks terrified as the camera zooms in on her face. Her cheeks are hollow and her eyes look hungry, though she has a certain air of confidence to her. And then I snort with laughter as her eyes roll back in her head and she falls fainting. Scratch that. There's _no_ confidence there. The boy too is easy meat, a youngster with unruly hair and puppy-dog eyes. Too bad. I was at least hoping for a challenge.

I excuse myself, knowing we must be nearing the Capitol, and take a shower. Since I won't have a stylist until I reach the Capitol, I'm in charge of my own fashion. I want to make a splash at the entrance, so I clean up, dry my hair, and twist it into a bun, the purple streak prominent. Then I pull on a fancy purple dress with gold accents, and gold sandals. Looking into the mirror, I scrutinize myself. Rather good, considering I did it all on my own. I already look like a goddess, and I haven't even met my prep team.

A moment later the train's windows go dark, and I hurry back to the dining room. We are going through the tunnel that leads into the Capitol. Hastily, I unlock the window, plastering an exuberant smile across my face. I have to milk these people for all they're worth, and give them the show they want. Feathered hair and eyes in ridiculous colors, waving hands with nails as long as my spearheads greet me as we emerge from the tunnel. Caspar stands at the other side of the train, waving out that window for all he's worth. I fancy the applause is louder on my side.

The train stops and we exit. Caspar looks handsome I admit grudgingly, having dressed himself up as well.

The roaring of the crowd hits me like a battering ram, but I look around and pump my fist in the air. Everyone seems excited, and once I'm inside the Remake Center I allow myself a few deep breaths. They like me. Objective number one, down. Next up: chariots. And only a week or so after that...killing District 8.

My doubts have evaporated like smoke.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

Safely on the train, I tune out the blather of my insecure district partner. What's wrong with Eleanor Bradford I don't know, but one thing is certain: she will _never_ win the Hunger Games.

A delectable smell catches my nose, and I turn toward the table. A steaming mountain of chocolatey goodness sits where an avox has just deposited it. I make a beeline across the room, and carve myself a mammoth slice. My mentor Ares comes up behind me.

"Carve me off a slice of that, will you?" he asks.

I oblige, more than eager to get on his good side. See, I can be nice after all!

Well, at least when it suits me.

He thanks me, and I sit forking huge bites into my mouth. It is delicious, and as Eleanor and her mentor Spice move to the table and cut themselves pieces, I take mother huge chunk.

Eleanor looks at me nervously. "That my not be wise," she says.

"Why not?" I ask, belligerently. I can add 'no sense of fun' to the things I dislike about this girl...

"You could get yourself sick," she warns.

"Who made you the cake peacekeeper?" I ask. "Besides, getting sick? I care because...?"

"Because you don't want to douse your potential sponsors in chocolatey vomit the minute you step off the train," she answers instantly.

I sigh. she _does_ have a point. But I'm not about to give up. "Whatever," I say, stuffing down another mouthful. "You can be all pretty and girly if you want. Number one, I won't barf, number two, this is delicious." I stand up in pretended anger and finish the cake in bed, smearing the silk sheets with chocolate and carelessly littering the floor with crumbs. An avox silently cleans up my mess as I switch on the screen and watch the recap of the Reapings. The careers from One seem typical. The boy from Four looks very strong, and his district partner isn't bad either. As far as the other districts, most of them look fairly average, except for the District 7's.

District 7 is never a good one to write off. They may not be a career district, but they are usually proficient at climbing, good with woodcraft, strong, popular, brave, and good with axes. This makes them a real threat. They've won nearly as many games as District 1, the lowest ranking career district in terms of wins. Also, the boy this year volunteered, and he looks scary. Maybe we should ask him to join us.

And if he doesn't, we should take him out early.

The girl too has a look of intelligence and stamina about her, though not as strongly as the boy.

As we near the Capitol I stand up, dusting off my clothes. The mental list of threats in my head is being carefully analyzed by me as we pull in. It's nice being District 2, since we arrive nearly a full day earlier than the Eleven, Twelve, and Eight tributes. They'll be in tomorrow afternoon, just before the chariots. In fact, Twelve probably hasn't even finished their Reaping yet.

I'll have plenty of time to go through the Remake Center and get to know my stylists, and then I can figure out how stuff works around here. These outer district idiots won't have any match for my strategic mind.

Who knows what wonderful things I will have found out before they even arrive?


	17. Love and Foolishness - 3 & 4 Trains

**Here's the second train chapter. I'm rather proud of how quick this update was, if I may say so myself.**

* * *

 **Daniel "Danny" Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

There is still a massive lump in my throat as I board the train, my ears ringing with Ebony's acceptance of me. The lock of hair she pressed into my palm is still clenched tightly between my fingers and seems to have an electric thrill to it. I have to win. She practically said that if I came back she'd marry me, and that's what I've wanted my whole life, isn't it?

But I have to dig deeper. Though I hate to admit it, the core of my being is not my love for Ebony. That love is there, but even deeper and more important is my dignity and morality as a human being. Without my ideals, my love for Ebony would mean nothing. I have to face that fact that if I come back I almost surely will have done as well as seen unspeakable horror. Ebony told me herself that she didn't want me back changed. She loves who I am now, and if I become a monster will she still have me? Will I still be able to look in the mirror and face the boy I've become? If I do evil to win these Games, what kind of father will I be for our children? The answer, as clear as it seems, is like poison to swallow.

I want to be someone that people look up to, especially to my children if I have any. I have never seen or heard of a victor that I could truly say I admired.

But can I do this? Can I stick to this terrible but straight and narrow way, refusing to lose my soul but losing my life?

I want to believe I can. I want to believe that I'm strong enough. But all the same, I know that in all honesty I probably am not. The selfish side of me wants to take over, telling me that nothing is more important than my own personal happiness.

 _But if I'm a murderer I WON'T BE HAPPY!_ I want to scream back at that selfish side.

The warring emotions are to much and I turn furiously from where I was standing staring out the window. I grab a bowl of some sort of jelly custard thing and stuff big globs in my mouth, trying to drown the battle within my heart in the sticky, shallow sweetness.

All the same the thoughts come surging back and I set the bowl down with a clatter as the sweetness turns to sawdust in my mouth.

The sudden movement and sound startles our escort from where he sits, tracing idly the vine tattoos tracing his hands. His spiky green hair seems to stand on ends as he whips around, eyes comically wide.

"Is something broken?" He asks, his voice gratingly high for a mans'.

He sounds like an out of tune violin as he squeaks.

"No," I say, my voice coming out in a snap due to my inner turmoil.

His eyes narrow.

"No need to be so touchy," he reprimands, sounding offended. "I wanted to make sure you weren't like that uncouth girl last year. She broke half the dishes and had no appreciation for the attention we lavish on you. Such an ungrateful little peacock she was."

I stiffen. Vieda Rambin, the girl last year, was mistreated by her parents and hadn't had a decent meal for most of her life. She was reaped because of her vast numbers of tesserae, and her death by mutt was the highlight set piece of last years games. She wasn't any of the things this cocky Capitol prig is setting her up to be. she was just a starved, bitter kid who reacted against the injustice of the Games in general. I have nothing but pity for her.

Unable to speak civilly to the escort, and not wanting to say something I'll regret, I stomp off to my apartments and slam the door.

Once there, my anger burns away somewhat. I sit down on the silky green bed in the middle of the room and uncurl my hand carefully. Ebony's black curl lies across the palm, soft against my fingers callused by years of work and guitar playing.

With a sigh I set it down on the sheet and stand up to explore. In the bathroom there is a variety of luxury items awaiting my disposal, and as I notice a piece of soap wrapped in tin foil I get an idea.

If I take the curl of hair into the arena as my token, it will almost surely be lost. The hairs will simply fall away one by one. I have to find a way to keep them together.

Taking the bar of soap to the bed, I unwrap it, setting it carefully to the side. Then I tear off a piece of tin foil and smooth it out,then take up the hair and wrap the foil tightly around the end of the bunch. A few bits still slide out, but it's better than nothing. If I could find a way to heat the foil it would be better...

And there's another idea.

I head to the apartments of my female partner, hoping she isn't as spoiled and petty as she seemed on the stage, because I need her help with something.

I find her in her sitting room, watching the Reapings for the other districts. Her shoes lie on the floor and there is a strong sicky-sweet smell coming from the bag of candy in her hands.

"Excuse me," I say politely.

She turns around, her forehead rumpling in a frown. "What?" she asks irritably.

"I was wondering if maybe there was a hair curler or something in your rooms. I'm trying to solder something," I say, holding up the hair.

She looks annoyed, and her next words quickly back up my observation.

"In the first place, I don't know what soldering means. In the second place, you have no right to be in my room. Thirdly, if I had a hair curler I wouldn't let you use it, and lastly, my curls are natural."

I am startled by her outburst. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," I babble, "your hair is beautiful."

Feeling like an idiot, I beat a hasty retreat.

The next thing I know, I bump into Solder Derran, the female mentor this year.

Thoroughly humiliated now, I try to back away.

"I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Willi there," she says, not unkindly. Before I have a chance to answer, she continues, "the word Solder caught my attention. What are you working on?"

My face if possible turns redder. "This," I say, holding up Eb's curl.

solder smiles understandingly. "Don't mind Willi, she's got a bone to pick with you for some reason. Frankly, I'm worried about her," she says, looking back nervously toward the door. "But, never mind that. I have a hair curler, and I should be able to help you with that."

"Thanks," I answer sincerely. I follow her into her rooms as she plugs the machine into the wall. Once it is heated, Solder helps me clamp the foil bit between the sides of the curler. Since the machine is used to curl hair it doesn't get that hot and it takes a moment for the foil to tighten. Solder looks on approvingly.

"You're a very smart boy, Daniel," she says.

"Thank you," I answer. I wish she could be my mentor. Instead I'll be paired with little-miss-stuck-up's brother. Immediately I regret the thought. She's just a kid.

Solder's eyes linger on me for a moment as I leave, and for a moment I think I see a hint of deep, sad longing in there eyes. I remember that shortly after she won her Games. the 44th, her family was killed in a fire. Her fiancee was killed shortly thereafter. It seems to happen a lot to victors, especially to ones who won in an unconventional manner. Solder won by pretending to be a shallow, giggly girl with nothing but love for the Capitol, and turned out to be a fiercely principled and loyal ally to her district partner. Both were injured killing the career pack, and were the final two. Solder tried to save him, but his injuries were more severe than hers and he suffocated before she had time to bleed to death. She was a crying wreck by the time they hauled her out, and had to be tranquilized and dragged away from her partner's body.

I must remind her of one of the people she lost.

Later that night at dinner I am still quiet and contemplative, and as the train rocks onward toward the Capitol that night I lie on my bed, staring towards the ceiling. Solder's eyes continue to haunt me. If I win, is that who I will become?

Both possibilities are frightening.

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

The moment I enter the train I head for the food like a shark following a blood trail.

And just like that shark, I tear into the food at the end. The fruits and ices are the best, I decide quickly. I see Cyma standing by the door, looking out the window with big, sad eyes. I wonder what's eating her. So I ask.

"What's eating you, gorgeous?" I ask. "Really, you should be the one doing the eating. Seriously, these are delicious. Think fast!"

I sling a ripe, peeled fruit-green and white with black seeds, though I don't know its name-and she catches it at the last possible second.

"Good catch," I say.

She sets it down on the window sill and goes back to staring.

I walk over to stand beside her, then take her face in one hand and turn it toward me. She flinches and goes to move away. I feel bad, toying with her like this, especially with my Hazel waiting back home, but it's all part of my strategy. She needs to trust me. "Fine, fine," I say easily, moving my hand away. "If you're not ready to talk you're not ready to talk, but you really should."

Her eyes fill with what I take for angry tears.

"I don't know what you're playing at, Enzo Garrix, but I saw you back home. You've got a girl, and now you're flirting with me. Well, hands off. And stay away from me!"

She stomps off to her rooms. and I hear the door slam behind her. Up behind me walks Tilly, the escort with the blue wig.

"You really shouldn't toy with a young lady that way," she says, her voice disapproving. "It isn't proper at all, you know."

I sigh tiredly. I don't know what to do right now. My emotions have been so worn out that I don't feel one bit myself. I just feel like doing something shocking and random to take my mind away from the coming challenge, and for a moment I wonder if that's what prompted me to flirt like that a moment ago. Following the impulse to shock, I get the perfect idea.

"Want to see something really improper?" I ask.

Without giving her a chance to answer, I sit down on the edge of the table and uncork a bottle full of red liquid. Sniffing it, I set it down disgustedly. "Fruit punch," I sniff with disdain, without even bothering to put the cap back on. I grab another one, this time full of a dark amber fluid. I uncork it and inhale appreciatively, recognizing the smell of fine spirits. Whisky to be precise.

"Now _that's_ more like it," I say, slopping full a glass and taking a sip. It burns going down and I barely suppress a splutter, though the after flavor is actually quite tasty. "Want some?" I say, filling another and proffering it to Tilly.

Her pink lips, looking progressively more horrified as the scene unfolds, pull a perfect O of horror.

"Suit yourself," I say carelessly, setting the glass down and topping mine up. Then Cyma comes in.

"How about you?" I ask mischievously, offering her the glass. She purses her lips and stomps toward the rear of the train with Tilly, muttering something about 'disgusting'. I giggle a little, but after I finish my glass I don't pour anymore. No point in taking the joke too far and actually making myself drunk.

As we eat lunch a few hours later with the mentors, I can see that my hijinks gave Tilly and Cyma something to bond over. For a omen I regret it, seeing that that could give my partner more clout with sponsors, but then I shrug it off. My mentor Quint "Popeye" Shaw likes me just fine, and that's what really matters. He's called Popeye because he lost an eye in his Games, but it doesn't really seem to have bothered him too much. Either way, he's much better than slim, aloof Mako Seine, Cyma's mentor. She barely ever talks, and seems like she almost doesn't want to be victor.

Either way, the trains have so far been a good start, and while I feel a little giddy from my earlier antics, I also feel totally prepared.

* * *

 _ **There's a 'cookie', aka film reference, in one of the new character's names this chapter. Can anyone spot it? It's really hard so if you do I'll be impressed! Oh, and it isn't that the guys' nickname is Popeye. Though it may or may not have to do with that**_ ** _character...heh heh._**

 ** _Did your opinions of any characters change this chapter?_**

 ** _Of our two young-men-with-girls-back-home, who do you like better?_**

 ** _What do you think of our mentors and escorts?_**

 **Leave me some reviews!**


	18. Tears and Bonds - 5 & 6 Trains

**I would like to present a "True All-round Fan-girl" award to LadyCordeliaStuart for spotting the cookie last chapter. The character Quint Shaw, District 4 Male mentor, is named after Captain Quint from _Jaws_ , a character played by Robert Shaw. Cingrats LadyC!**

 **Please don't tell me you just googled 'quint shaw' to figure it out :P**

 **In response to ZoeSimpson12's review: Pixie looked bad in Mercury's chapter because Mercury is arrogant and cruel toward other people. I felt his personality would tend to laugh off any outer district tributes, especially if they fainted after the Reaping. His views do not necessarily reflect mine. In Atalanta's POv, her anger was simply a manifestation of her vendetta against District 8. Her brother was killed in the Second Quarter Quell by Fiber, the District 8 Female. She therefore hates the District 8 tributes. Again, I actually disagree with nearly all the character perspectives I write in this story; and am simply trying to remain loyal to the establish personalities and backstories of the tributes. Sorry if that wasn't clear.**

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

The tears still won't stop as I board the train, and frankly I'm making very little effort to get them to. Crying helps me vent my emotions, and at least the wails coming from my mouth help to distract me from the immediate problem. Namely that I'm bound for the Hunger Games.

Just thinking the name turns my tears to desperate hiccups. It's too terrifying!

A woman shows me to a room with a bed and I fling myself down, not caring that my clothes, smeared with vomit, are disfiguring the crisp, clean sheets. The sour smell coating my hands overlays the perfumed scent of Capitol decadence, but again I don't care. No one does. Otherwise, one of the mentors would have tried to visit me.

Of course they won't visit me. After all, getting attached will only make it harder when I die. District 5 hasn't had a Victor since Matt Sanchez won, well before the Quarter Quell. Both he and the other victors are messes. I can't blame them. The fear I feel now is enough to choke me, and suffering that fear for weeks on end while slowly losing yourself in the desperation to survive...I almost hope that I'll die in the bloodbath, just so that I don't have to go through the things they did.

A body can only lie in a welter of misery so long though, and eventually there are no tears left to cry and I sit, rocking myself, slowly becoming more aware of where I am. The room is darkly lit and gorgeous, all decorated in my favorite color, red. I shiver. Red is also the color of blood.

My stomach growls, and I realize that the only food I've eaten in the last twenty-four hours now sits in a messy puddle beside the Reaping stage. Probably they've already cleaned it up. I feel bad for wasting my mother's delicious spice melts that way, but the terror had gone to my head and I just couldn't control myself. What else was I supposed to do?

Deep down I know I could have done more.

A lot more.

It's never too late, Zita, I tell myself, sliding off the edge of the bed. The carpet is deep and sinks beneath my feet, so I take off my shoes and dig in my toes. I _did_ tell the girls I would try to come back. I made a promise. No matter how afraid I am, shouldn't I try to keep it?

It's so hard to know. I'm not even in the arena, and already I am torn inside, wondering what to do. What I should do now, I suppose, is pull some of those fancy clothes out of the even fancier closet standing in the corner, and get myself cleaned up.

With a solid plan laid out for the moment, I go to the wardrobe and look at what's there. A warm green sweater catches my eye and I finger it. Its as soft as the downy hair of a newborn baby, or a kitten. Well, once it's dried out of course. All mammal babies are actually wet when they're born, but that's beside the point. The point is it's the softest thing I've ever touched.

Yes, I will definitely be wearing that.

It looks nice with leggings the color of the sun and downy as a new-hatched-but-not-so-new-that-it's-still-wet duckling. Throwing those over my arm, I head into the bathroom. I hang mamá's scarf, my friend's fabric scraps still tied to the end, carefully on a hook. Then I strip gingerly out of my soiled dress, dropping it in the corner. My underclothes are clean, so I hang them up too. Then, I turn on the shower.

It takes a few minutes to figure out how to turn the knobs so that the water is at the right temperature, but at last I get it right, and, sighing, step into the warm spray. It's soothing, like the patter of rain is when you're trying to sleep, and as it washes away the disgusting signs of my earlier fear I begin to get stronger. The sour smell of vomit disappears, and by then, I almost feel like a fighter. I still want to weep, but there is a new purpose to me. I may be scared, I'll probably cry and scream, but I won't lose myself in the fear. Even if my fear controls my body, it cannot control everything. I will try to believe in myself.

Putting on the comfortable clothes, I head to the back of the train where the food is, and eat a sensible meal. No, I don't completely avoid the desserts, but I eat at least as much ham as I do cake. The cake is white and crumbly and sweet; positively angelic. Mmmmm. Now _there's_ something to fight for. As a victor, I could probably have someone bake this for me whenever I wanted.

Only after I've finished eating do I notice my district partner Wyatt brooding at the back of the train. I don't think he's spoken once since he was reaped.

"Hey," I say, "you want to try any of that food? It's really good." I exhibit a small chunk of cake that I'm still nibbling as evidence.

He doesn't say anything.

I sit down beside him, my motherly instincts kicking in. I've always hated seeing other people suffer. "You feeling okay," I ask, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He turns on me, anger blazing up suddenly. He knocks my hand away fiercely and I start backward, amazed by his fury.

"Of course I'm not okay!" he shouts. "I grew up an outcast in my own family, now I'm on my way to die! Guess what? They didn't even come to say goodbye. All my life I've dreamed of becoming someone big and making them all pay, but it's _never, ever going to happen_! And you know what is going to happen?" His voice rises to almost a shriek. "I'm going to die! Violently, miserably, agonizingly. And so are you. So don't try to pretend it's all okay!"

I jump back, tears starting in my eyes over his tirade. The anger of this boy is shocking, and yet his words have reawakened my momentarily conquered fear. He's right, I know he is! I just won't admit it!

With a little gasp I turn, fleeing back to my room. I nearly run into Novacula the escort, apparently just back from donning a slightly less ridiculous outfit from before. Making a choked sound I push her out of the way, astounded by own sudden return to anger and despair. I don't care if she thinks I'm rude! I DON'T CARE!

They have no right to send us to our deaths for their entertainment! No right!

I fling myself on the bed and dissolve in another gale of stormy sobbing.

Wyatt is right.

We're doomed.

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

Stay positive, stay positive, I think. My declaration to try, possibly winning by drowning the careers with water balloons was a joke though, and keeping up that positive attitude is going to be hard. There has to be some way to get a bright side out of this, I think, but my district partner doesn't seem to think so and his morose attitude is definitely beginning to get to me.

He volunteered, for a friend I think, and I still almost feel an irrational anger toward him. He didn't have any reason to be so brave. I wouldn't have done it for Tessi, even though we've been best friends almost as long as I remember. He threw his life away for another. What an idiot. What a loser. I mean, he's literally going to _lose his life_.

All the same, I realize that this way of thinking is ridiculous. He did something incredibly brave, and it's just rankling with me that I know I would have been too cowardly to have ever matched his deed.

The only sound as the train pulls out is the light buzz of its engine, and the tuneless humming of Prunella Pimpernel as she samples foods. She's our escort; so far neither mentor has made an appearance. Jace Track and Porter Tripp will be mentoring this year, and hopefully things will go better for my district partner Hunter and I than it did for the pair last year. One died in the bloodbath and the other starved. We have a new headgamemaker this year, and usually those games are the worst. The newbies are always wanting to prove themselves by having the most outlandish environments and the wackiest, cruelest mutts.

Technically the Hunger Games is supposed to be an outdoor survival contest, but some years that definition of 'outdoor' is quite blurred. Last year it was an old, flooded castle, filled with man-eating rats and nothing whatsoever that could be foraged for food. The Games were won by the girl from District 4, who came off as a mindless career until nearly all the tributes were gone, then killed the rest of the pack in their sleep. She then stayed awake for three days until the last four tributes starved, and by the end was completely insane and hallucinating from sleep deprivation. Her name was Mako Seine, and I still don't know how to feel about her. She was completely ruthless, but later during the Victory Tour was almost apologetic and seemed like she truly regretted what she'd had to do. Because she did have to do it. After all, it goes completely against human instincts to mindlessly submit to death and go down without fighting.

If I win I probably will have done things like poison, gut, and behead tributes.

Images like that from past Hunger Games begin to flit through my mind, and I lean back hopelessly, trying to push them away.

The voice of the escort cuts through my macabre imaginings and I look up tiredly. What does she want to bore us with now?

"This dress is really quite tight," she says almost apologetically, "and I really must change into something better. Will you be all right if I leave for a few moments?"

Her tone is genuinely worried and I roll my eyes. "Go right ahead, we're not babies," I mutter. She looks hurt, but I don't care. I'm not in a happy mood right now. As the clacking of her heels fades into the distance, my district partner rises to his feet.

"Have to use the bathroom," he says.

Why is everyone explaining exactly why they need to go before leaving? It's quite annoying.

"Well, thanks for letting me know," I say sarcastically as he beats a hasty retreat. Morosely, I go back to staring out the window.

And then, like a lightbulb flipping on, I get an idea that pulls my mind right away from my troubles. If that escort will just take a nice long while getting dressed, this should work...

I leap from my seat, moving quickly and quietly to the table. There is a tall pitcher of some sort of juice, and I raise it in my hand, testing the weight. Perfect.

I set it back down and move to the window, yanking the draw cord from one of the blinds. I tie the cord to the doorknob, and, standing on tip toe, place the pitcher on a convenient shelf directly above the door. Then I tie the other end of the cord to the pitcher's handle and step back to survey my work. Perfect. When Prunella walks through that door in a few minutes she's going to get a surprise. A nice, big, sticky, sweet one.

Sitting down at the table, I settle in to wait.

A few minutes later there is a step in the hall, and I sit upright eager. The handle turns and the door opens, the pitcher crashing down in a sticky waterfall. I burst out laughing, but...

My laugh gets cut off abruptly. Porter Tripp stands in the doorway, her bottom lip quivering like she's going to cry, leaning heavily on her cane. Rivulets of juice run down her forehead and bead on her prematurely gray hair.

I stare in mute horror.

"Sorry," I babble. "I didn't mean to catch you! It was for Prunella-"

Porter begins to sob and I stare dumbly, mentally berating myself. Now what? I have no idea what to do with crying victors.

But then, all of sudden, I do.

"I'm sorry," I say much more softly and contritely. Then I put an arm on her shoulder and lead her gently to a seat, wiping her face with a napkin. My actions are awkward, as I'm use to running after a prank and not having to deal with the aftermath. Maybe my actions haven't been as funny as I thought they were.

Anyone can tell Porter's been through a lot. She won her Games when she, the last surviving non-career, was cornered on an unstable ledge above a waterfall by the career pack. they stabbed her in the stomach and were cutting into her face for fun when the ledge gave way, dropping them all into the river. The careers died in the fall, smashed against the stones, but Porter was lucky, if you can call it that. She landed in water clear of debris and was pushed under. they announced her as victor, but in the few seconds before the hovercraft arrived that waterfall swirled her up and down and all around, bashing her against rocks and logs. She broke her neck and back, and despite all efforts, her right leg was paralyzed.

Somehow she managed not to turn to morphling once she got home, the way our other victors have. She had won the 35th Hunger Games, and she held her head as high as she could, seeing as she was still in a neck brace.

I respect her a lot.

Slowly her sobs quiet and I hug her awkwardly. Then an avox comes in and starts cleaning up the mess, but I stop her and do it myself. Then I help the ailing victor back to her room.

Afterward, there's a sort of warm fuzzy feeling in my heart that I don't think I've ever felt before, and my sleep that night is more quiet and pleasant than I could have hoped for.

Maybe helping others instead of pranking them isn't overrated after all.

* * *

 **A\N: Yes, I know Porter Tripp is supposed to be a District 5 victor, but the name sounded so District 6 I couldn't help it. Besides, she's only canon if your such a fangirl that you saw the promotional posters for Catching Fire (the movie) put out by . Deal with the change (if you even new Porter existed in the first place...if you didn't, forget I said this. She's practically an OC since I made up everything about her except her name and the year she won).**

 _ **What did you think of the mentors and escorts introduced so far?**_

 _ **Did your opinions of any of the tributes change based off this chapter?**_

 _ **Are the trains worth it, or should I have just raced right to the Capitol?**_

 _ **Out of the four tributes in this chapter, whose worldview and\or character arc resonates with you most?**_

 _ **What is your favorite food?**_


	19. Beautiful and Calculating - 7 & 8 Trains

**Is nuna4ever still reading? If you are, please leave a short review so I know. Thanks!**

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

Once on the train, the happiness I felt from my engagement and loving goodbye with Luke seems to evaporate. All thoughts of love and joy and a safe return are sucked from my mind as the full horror of my situation hits me. I am going into the Hunger Games, and my district partner is a serial killer. Plus, he's targeting me.

I start shaking again, my mind exhausted by the roller-coaster of emotion I've been riding all day. I'm in no condition to deal with a panic attack, but my brin doesn't care. Every nerve of my body is screaming for me to run, to hide, to defend myself, to do something.

The minute I am on the train I flee to my room, not heeding the worried questions of Orlisia the escort. What would a stupid woman with so little reality in her life have to say to me? A woman who comes to District 7 believing we are so wild and forest-oriented that we say 'stamens' and 'pistillates' instead of boys and girls is a woman with so much cotton in her head that I can't even comprehend it.

I slam the door behind me and lock it, then lean my back against the polished panels, sliding down to the floor. I lean my head back against the wood and try to get ahold of my emotions. Luke wants me to come back-needs me to come back-and I intend to do it. If I'm to manage that, I need to get ahold of myself. Shuting my eyes and gathering a wad of fabric from my skirt in each hand, I focus on breathing. In my nose, out my mouth, in my nose out my mouth.

It's amazing how effective it is. After only a few minutes, I begin to feel better and curiously open my eyes. My nose is running lightly from my tears in the Justice Building, and I wipe my hand across it. The metal band on my ring finger scratches it, and I manage a small smile. I can do this. To marry Luke and build a better life for my mother and brother, I can do anything at all. I just have to set my mind to it.

With that decision fresh in my brain, I take a closer look at the room around me. There is a lamp beside the bed, and I stand up and walk across to it. Pulling the cord, I stare at the richness around me.

District 7 is by no means impoverished, considering our essential industry and the fact that we bring home almost one victor each decade, but this room is like nothing I've seen before. It's decorated to look natural and like a forest, and thankfully whoever was in charge actually knew what real forest looked like. This isn't like Orlisia's spiky green hair decorated with pinecones. Instead, the room is genuinely earthy and welcoming.

The carpet is a pale tan color, and as soft as moss. The walls are green and painted with aspens. The color scheme is dark, seeming to suggest a peaceful twilit evening.

I can almost smell earth and leaves, feel a gentle wind on my face, and the quiet rustle of leaves. Aspens are a truly beautiful tree, or at least the quaking variety is, and that's what the wallpaper is. They have pale white bark and soft green leaves, and the rustle under the lightest hint of a breeze. The sound they make has the same sense of gentleness and natural, soothing beauty as the noise made by a small, slow-moving stream.

Feeling at home and much calmer, I move on from the decorations to look at the furniture. It is dark, perhaps mahogany or walnut, and very glossy. there is a wardrobe in the corner, and I walk over to it.

I've never been one for clothes and girl talk, but part of that just has to do with growing up where I did. I _am_ tomboyish, but not quite as much as some think I am. there have been times where I wished that instead of flannel and jeans I could wear something really pretty, just once to see what it felt like.

The clothes hanging here are straight out of those moments.

There are dresses and sweaters and pants-though no sleeping clothes-all made of the softest, most beautiful fabrics. They are in all colors, and all in my size. Someone must have set up the wardrobe as soon as the reapings finished.

If I want to win these Games, people need to remember me, and not just remember me, but remember me in a positive light. The Capitol doesn't like crybabies, and as much as I hate the idea, I'm going to have to at least pretend to enjoy myself. The first step is to make sure people can't see I've been crying for the last hour. Right now the dark circles under my eyes and eyelashes stuck together by salt are not in my favor.

District 7 is situated nearly directly above the Capitol, and we'll probably arrive in not much more than an hour. Some of the tribute won't arrive until tomorrow afternoon, and will have to spend all night on the train, but I'll be in the Capitol by nightfall. That's probably why there weren't any pajamas among the other clothing.

There's a pale blue dress that matches my eyes, and I select it. My favorite color is green, but this isn't about favorite colors, it's about what really looks good on me.

I take it off its hanger and select a pair of dove-gray leggings, a tank top with a low enough neckline that it won't hang out of the dress, and clean underpants. I take the armload of clothes into the bathroom and lock the door, ensuring that I can take my time without any unpleasant surprises. Then I strip off and climb into the shower.

I've had a shower once before, when I caught pneumonia as a ten year old and had to go to the hospital. They had showers there and I took several over the course of my stay there. It was very nice, thought in some ways I prefer baths. Particularly because during the summer my friends and I would hike up the river a ways and take turns standing guard while we all bathed in the water. Those days were amazing, just being in the forest under the sun with nothing on but your skin, surrounded by girls you trusted and respected. My friends and I were so close, we were comfortable with that kind of thing. I wish everyone could be as innocent as we were.

After washing my hair with a soap smelling like lavender, then rubbing myself with lotion of the same, I dry off and put on the clothes. The cut of the dress is perfect, not too tight and not too loose. The gray and blue make my eyes seem soft and gentle, and so I go to the wardrobe again and choose gray combat-style boots to go with the dress. there, now I've got a touch of ferocity too.

I brush my hair out and braid it in the fishtail style I like, draping it over my shoulder. Perfect.

Feeling empowered and bold by my effort to help myself, I go out to the sitting room. Orlisia looks up suddenly as I come in.

"Hello, Emmett," she greets me. "Glad to see you. I was beginning to worry."

Thankfully, my district partner is nowhere to be seen and I relax, luring myself a cup of a delicious drink that tastes like lemon, and seems to tingle in my nose and throat. It's fizzy and odd, but I like it.

"That outfit is quite pretty," Orlisia says. "You have good taste."

"Thanks," I respond. For a moment I consider telling her I like her dress too, but that would just be a lie. I don't want to encourage her.

"Where are the mentors?" I ask.

"Talking to eachother and watching the Reapings for the other districts. There was a bit of a brouhaha concerning your district partner. He got cocky with Alm, and, well...he should be okay by the time we reach the Capitol, as long as it doesn't bruise." She grimaces slightly.

I laugh. "What happened?" I can totally imagine Phoenix mouthing off to our burly victor and getting more than he bargained for.

"Well, Alm was a little drunk, and when Phoenix asked for advice on a Games plan, he didn't answer. Phoenix got mad at him and insulted him for not helping him out. Called him a traitor to the district, I believe. Alm told him he was one to talk, seeing as he was a convict, and then Phoenix acted like he would hit him, so Alm struck first. I really hope the boy doesn't end up with a black eye..."

I frown. With Phoenix not present, I feel okay telling Orlisia just what I think of him. "The boy murdered a bunch of people in our district, and I'm pretty sure he has it out for me," I confess.

"Don't worry honey," Orlisia says. "I can see you've got brains and spunk. Just between you and me, that hunk of a boy is too cocky for his own good. I'm not sure what will happen to him unless he really changes his attitude."

I have very little respect for escorts, and yet Orlisia's words somehow comfort me.

Maybe she's not all bad after all.

* * *

 **Rose "Pixie" Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

The world rocks and sways as my eyes open. I am lying on a soft surface, silk I think, like the hair ribbon Thorn brought home for my birthday.

I slide onto the thick carpeted floor which sways as well, and walk to the window. Probably I'm just still dizzy.

When I reach the glass pane and stare out, I reel back in horror. Outside are the flapping leaves of District 11's vineyards.

The train has already left, without my goodbyes.

In all likelihood I will never see my family again.

The thought is crushing. I sit up on the bed and draw my knees up to my chest, burying my face hopelessly upon them. I'm a skinny, underfed girl with temper issues and an overdeveloped sense of justice. The only way someone like me could win is by changing themselves completely, and yet I don't wan to. But deep down, I know I must.

After warring with myself for what feels like hours, I reach a decision, pushing away the doubts and conscience niggling at the back of my mind. If I want to win these games I have to be organized and prepared, and seize every opportunity that presents itself. I need to eat as much meat and dairy as I can to build food reserves, I need to scope out the other tributes' temperaments, I need to replay tapes of old Games and practice the moves that win fights until they are so ingrained in my muscle memory that even if I'm hurt, exhausted, sick and starving I can defend myself.

I need to use every ounce of strength, courage, and cunning I have. And I need to pretend that I'm a friend of the Capitols'. As repulsive as the ideas of killing, or sucking up to the real villains are, my will to live is stronger.

Feeling proactive and like I ought to get down to business right away, I uncurl myself and snatch a notepad and pen from the table beside the bed. the nI return to the soft blankets and curl them into a nest shape, burrowing down into them. I feel safe and warm as I raise my knees in a sort of writing desk and place the notepad on it.

If I'm to go into the bloodbath, I need to know what I need before I go in. If I just freehand it, I'll end up getting dazzled by unnecessary but useful items, staying too long, and not having what I need or maybe even getting killed. I need to have this so figured out that I get in and out before I'm caught.

Of course, what I need will depend somewhat on the environment. Shelter or blankets will not be essential unless it is freezing cold. I start writing.

After a few minutes, I have a list of seven items, in order of importance from greatest to least. I survey my list with satisfaction.

 _1\. Knife(s)_

 _2\. Water purifier_

 _3\. Thick, heavy fabric or leather_

 _4\. Rope or string_

 _5\. Disinfectant_

 _6\. Backpack or sack_

 _7\. Non-spoilable food_

A knife can be used for almost anything. Tied to stick it can be a spear, you can use it to chop firewood, cook with, clean game...a knife can be improvised for almost any purpose. Before I go for anything else, I need a good knife. Next is water purifier. I'll need iodine or chlorine for disinfecting the water I drink, otherwise I risk getting sick or poisoned by contamination. If I die of diarrhea in the first week the other times won't be of much use. If I get some heavy fabric I can use it to make a sling. Since that is a weapon I can use for hunting and self defense, getting my hands on one will be huge. Thankfully they're easy to make from almost any material. The canvas on a backpack would probably work.

Rope or string is another one of those all-round useful ones. I can use it to anchor myself in a tree at night, set snares, fish, or tie sticks together for a shelter. It's also easier to make a sling if you have a stiff cord of some sort. disinfectant is big, though not at the top of my list. It's possible that I won't get injured, but I probably will at some point. Then, disinfectant could be the difference between life and death. Also, infection just isn't a pleasant way to go.

The last two items are more if I feel I have time to find them. Having a backpack would be extremely useful for hauling supplies in, but it isn't a complete necessity. I won't be risking my life to get one. Same with the food. I can hunt and gather, but having something that wouldn't spoil would be nice in case I'm injured or have to lay low. Again though, I won't be risking my life to get that. Medical supplies could be good too...they can be improvised, but...

I add them to my list.

 _8\. Medical supplies_

Feeling satisfied, I fold the list and tuck into the pocket of my skirt. A strand of hair falls into my eyes, and I realize my pony tail is coming loose. Going out toward the man room, I reach my hands up and undo the ribbon in my hair. I pause in the hall to retie it. While I do, and avox comes in and unlocks a cabinet of cleaning supplies, removing a bottle and walking off, leaving the door unlocked. I peer inside the cabinet, curious. Then, I get an idea.

Untying the ribbon again from my hair, I pull a bottle from the shelf and pour the contents onto the ribbon. There is a slight sweet smell as I screw the cap back on and place the ribbon in my pocket, then put back the bottle. Looking over my shoulder furtively, I duck back into my room.

There was a bottle of chloroform in that cabinet, probably to be used for greasy spills. I know because it was used sometimes on greasy machinery in Eight. It's a solvent that breaks up the oil or something like that. It was also used to incapacitate victims by a young man who stole a bottle and gassed people with it, then robbed their houses while they were out. He was caught and hung eventually, but the case was big enough it stuck with me.

All I have to do is wear that innocuous silk bow into the arena as my token, and no one will know that it's actually a weapon. I smile.

Placing it in a plastic back so that the fumes won't attract attention, I change into sweat pants and a shirt. I have just finished stuffing the bad into my pocket when the escort comes in.

I jump with a guilty start, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Good to see you awake" he tells me. "Anyway, it's time for lunch."

Well that was very comforting I think, going out to the table. The food is delicious, very thin stake with a spicy sauce, beans, and cheese. I think I shock the escort by eating mostly steak and cheese, but I don't care. It's my strategy and I'm not about to give it away.

Both our mentors are absent, so I talk mostly to my district partner, Cotton. He's really nice and sweet, and tells me he really like how unique my name is. I can't help but smile at him.

A pang of doubt strikes me.

How can I kill people like these? Aren't we all kids?

I brush the thought away. No, to win the Games I will have to not be a kid.

But that doesn't stop me from singing to Cotton that night when he asks me to, and again I wonder if I'm doing the right thing. I've never had a younger sibling, and the peaceful look in his eyes as he falls asleep seems to accuse me of being hard-hearted. ]

What am I to do? I don't want to be jaded and closed off, but I also don't want to be dead.

The Hunger Games should be called the War Inside You Games, because no one can win them without becoming the very things they fear and hate.

In the Hunger Games there are only monsters.

Even the rocking of the train can't bring me sleep as I lie awake that night, staring at my list.

What am I becoming?

Who am I?

* * *

 _ **What did you think of this chapter?**_

 _ **Did your opinion of any of the tributes change?**_

 _ **If you were on the train going to the Hunger Games, what would you be thinking about?**_

 _ **Who's personal war do you think is headed in the right direction, Pixie's or Emmett's? (Both is an option:)**_

 **That's all for now, be sure to leave a nice long review! Thanks all, you guys are great.**


	20. Friends and Mentors - 9 & 10 Trains

**Here comes Districts 9 and 10!**

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

I follow the escort onto the train, standing tall for the cameras. I am not weak, I tell myself, over and over again. I know that I cannot slip up even once or I will be written off. The Capitol citizens will already be leery of a deaf tribute, and one single slip up will back up all their assumptions and spell my doom.

The escort leads me into the train with my district partner and I follow, a blush rising to my cheeks. The escort is wearing the shortest skirt and most low-necked top I have seen in my life, and when she moves I am constantly worried that I'll see something I don't want to. To distract myself, I pay extra attention to my surroundings. The train car has one long corridor, and doors open off both sides. The driver sits near the front, by the entrance. Most of the doors are locked, and I assume that they are for carrying the servants and security that accompany the tributes. I know that the Capitol has slaves called avoxes who have their tongues cut out.

Sympathy floods me. I can speak, but I rarely do. As I deaf person, it is very hard to find the confidence to talk when you don't know how you sound. Being mute is very, very hard.

Then a new doubt springs into my mind. The other people riding this train - the escort and mentors - won't be able to communicate with me. Once I reach the Capitol, will there be anyone who can help me? How will I do the interviews? A host of worries floods me. If I cannot speak or understand advice no one will respect me. My stomach flip-flops with apprehension as we pass more doors and at last arrive in the back of the train. Everything they think about me will be true if I can't get advice. There are subtitles on the screen at home, so I know a lot from watching previous Games, but there will be some things that only the mentors can teach me. I feel like I'm going to vomit just thinking about it.

I acted brave for my family and for the cameras, but deep down I am just a young woman - a girl, really - and I'm terrified. Worse is the fact that I can't hear. Nearly this entire time the escort has been rattling on to my district partner, and I have no idea what is even being said. Now that I think about it, I realize I don't even know his name.

There is a soft, velvety lounge at the back, beneath a huge window, and I throw myself down on it. Petulantly, I kick off my sandals and put my arms on the back, rating my chin on top of them. The district looks like a blur as it rushes past on both sides, but from the back window I can actually see it and focus on it as it recedes into the distance. Neither life nor by district has been kind to me, and yet a lump rises in my throat and tears prick my eyes as I watch it fade into the distance behind the endless pair of silver lines the train rides. It may not have been much, but it was home.

I could draw there, and run among the stubble of freshly mown fields. It was poor, but it was beautiful. Even if I didn't usually connect with the people, the land and the sky and the sun were my friends, as was the wind that blew my cares to the back of my mind. When I was out there I felt complete. The land could not talk, and we spoke to each other with our beauty and our freedom. Out there, I was just another girl with hopes and dreams of her own.

My skills will not matter if I cannot gain the Capitol's respect, and their respect is a fickle thing.

An overwhelming desire to go on living seizes me. I know why my family wanted to rebel, but at the same time I feel that I could have made the best of living in this country, as broken as it is. As long as I hold onto my own heart and my own mind, the Capitol can toss whatever it wants at us, but I will not be shaken.

Do I have that strength?

I don't know. I've always been seen as weak, and looked for fulfillment in rebellion. Slowly, I uncurl my fingers and look at the disk Henri slipped into my hand before I left. What am I doing? Is this rebellion worth it? Won't I better serve the cause if I win; if I come back as victor, then if I throw my life away in a useless display of mutiny?

I have no way to know what is worth what.

The thoughts pound their way around my brain until I can hardly think, and so I push them all away, closing my eyes and imagining myself back in the fields at home.

The next thing I know there is a hand on my shoulder, and I start upright. A young girl with black hair and flat-looking green eyes stands behind me. Behind her is our escort, dressed more decently, and tapping her foot impatiently.

It is time to eat, the girl signs.

Now I am really startled. She knows how to talk to me! A flood of questions rises up. Tell the escort to wait a moment, I sign. Then: Who are you? I ask.

It doesn't matter, she signs, but there is an anger to her motions and her eyes have awakened somewhat, a spark of green fire and resentment gleaming behind them.

She must be an avox.

Leaving the subject be, I ask a different question. The escort, and my district partner, what are their names?

The escort snaps something to the girl and she beckons me to follow, so I do. No use crossing an escort.

Once we reach the dining area the others are already seated, and I slide nervously into a chair. The girl takes a napkin and a one and points to the escort. _Tabatha,_ she writes, in neat rounded letters. Then she points to my district partner.

Leon Rayner.

I give them each a shy smile. The mentors I already know, Kernel Whitt and Cane Wickham, winners of the 37th and 43rd Hunger Games respectively. I watched reruns of the Games a lot, since it was something to do. Our television had subtitles, and I could actually understand what was going on. It feels twisted that I spent so much of my time doing it, but now, that knowledge of strategy - of what works and what doesn't - may be invaluable.

The dinner is delicious, crispy white noodles and beef fried with vegetables, all sprinkled to taste in a red powder that makes the food burn slightly. At first I don't like it, but then, with a few sips of milk between each bite, the heat is more bearable and I actually rather like it.

I still feel out of the loop as conversation is evident in the moving mouths of my dinner mates, but I feel more comfortable.

Once I reach the Capitol, they will want to be able to understand me, otherwise I'd just be boring. There's avoxes there, and in some ways, I might have more people to talk to than I ever did in District 9.

Once I'm in the Games, hearing won't really matter as long as I lie low. Hopefully there will be trees, so I'll be able to use my eyes and see people coming.

Dinner finishes with an amazing lemony pie, the top fluffy and white. I head back to the train car, and the avox helps me to learn the various gadgets in the room that dim lights, turn on the television, or control the shower. I ask her again what her name is, and again she tells me it's not important.

It is to me, I sign, and something in her eyes softens.

Eilis, she writes.

She dims the lights and leaves the room, but even in the soft surroundings sleep is long in coming.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

My district may have been dingy and smelling of animals, but at least it was familiar, and it was home. The train is nothing like that.

Mixing into a strange odor that makes my head pound is the smell of fuel, coal dust, and cleaning agents, along with sweet candies and heady spices, probably scattered in an attempt to freshen the air. My head begins to spin, and I stagger up against the door as we board the train.

Instantly Alasha is all concern, her shoes letting out pained-sounding, brisk 'oinks' as she calls for a servant to carry me into my rooms, brushing off my protestations that I'm completely fine. She may be shallow, but she's certainly shrewd, because when I say I'm fine I'm a miserable liar. The avoxes deposit me on a silky mattress, dim the lights, and deposit a frosty glass of some cool drink on the bedside table before I could say 'Cotton'.

And Cotton is just what I'm thinking about right now. His soft wool against my cheek, his pink little mouth as he sucked at the bottle, and his fuzzy tail whisking back and forth. Perhaps being sad that I won't be able to watch my lamb grow up should be the least of my worries, but it's what's for most in my mind. Haunting too is Vera.

For a moment, she seemed like she would say that she loved me.

I turn over, pressing my face to the pillow, and groan. Good thing Alasha isn't still here; that sound would have sent her over the edge. What am I going to do? Banishing all thought of the Games won't make them go away, though I'm tempted to do just that. If I want to win, I'll have to learn, and fight hard. This stay in the Capitol can't just be a lark, I'll have to make the most of everything anyone can teach me.

Which begs the more pressing question: _do_ I want to win?

The easy answer is yes. Winning means fame and fortune, losing means certain death. But then it gets more complicated. Winning means a life of owing it to the Capitol, of being their mouthpiece, of looking little kids in the face and saying winning the Hunger Games was the best thing that ever happened to you. Winning means watching twenty-three other kids die, probably killing some of them personally. Usually winning means sustaining horrific injuries and terrifying bodily punishment at the hands of others.

And suddenly losing starts to sound really great.

Losing means never, ever being able to be hurt by the Capitol or anyone else again. Sweet deal, huh?

Yeah, but it also means never finding out whether you like your best female friend in _that_ way, and if she likes you back. It means leaving behind your grieving parents and supportive older brother. And, of course, my pet lamb.

What a mess.

What a _bloody_ mess.

I'm not sure whether I mean that as a swear word or a literal adjective.

Probably both.

Moodily, I draw my knees up to my chest, tucking the glass of icy mashed fruit into them and sticking its gaudy straw in my mouth. It's delicious, though after a few big gulps my head and teeth ache from the cold.

Finished, I set it down and go out to the main dining room. For now, I'm gonna take the weak route I mentioned earlier and pretend the Games don't exist.

Alasha looks up as I come into the room. She's changed into a dressing gown, and washed off most of her makeup, and in that state looks almost matronly. My district partner is staring out the window at the back, her eyes misty. It's already dark outside, and I wonder how long I spent in the room thinking.

"Thanks for the fruit," I say, setting down my empty glass.

"Sherbet," Alasha corrects. "It was sherbet. But you're very welcome. Feeling better?"

"Much," I say, giving what I hope is a reassuring smile and not a ghastly excuse for a grin.

Ricotta, sitting by the window in the back, suddenly begins to talk. Her voice sounds stretched and overly optimistic.

"Come and see this! The wheels are throwing up sparks behind us, and they're all twinkly and bright. It's really pretty. They look sorta like stars from here. All flashy and orange."

I go over to her and look out. The sparks _are_ pretty; ghostly as they mark our fiery trail, winking out one by one. Even though I'm here seeing for myself, Ricotta doesn't stop talking.

"I wonder how hot they are, and if they'd burn me if I touched them. They don't look that hot, since they're orange not white. Probably they'd just tickle. I'd like to touch one...oh! There's more of them in the air, high up! How'd they get there? Oh, those must be fireflies. I used to catch those all the time with Colby and Toby..."

Suddenly her voice cracks and a tear runs down her face. I understand her silly play by play now. She was just like me, trying to take her mind off the Games by grasping at any other interesting object in the area, only she was doing it out loud. I hate seeing people cry, and something hot and hard grows in my chest. I wish I could punish the people in the Capitol for doing this to us! It isn't fair. What difference do I make?

My hand is shaking, but a thought springs to the forefront of my mind. _Only the difference you_ try _to make, Byron. Only what you_ try.

Tentatively, I reach out and put a hand on her arm. "I like fireflies too," I say. Maybe it was lame, but it was all I could think of on the spur of the moment; the only link between us I could think of. I expect she thinks it's stupid.

But what I don't expect is for her to round on me, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "That's nice," she says.

She stares at me a few more seconds before moving over to the table and vigorously cutting her self a slice of cake, pointedly putting herself as far from me as possible without leaving the room. My shoulders slump in defeat. _This_ is what the Games do to us. They tear us apart until we can't trust anyone. I was only trying to be friendly, and yet she immediately assumed I had an ulterior motive.

This is cruel.

I'd planned to stay and try to get to know my fellow tribute, my escort, and maybe the mentors. Ricotta doesn't want to talk to me, at least not unless by keeping up a running commentary on what she sees out the window. Alasha's nice enough, but after Ricotta I'm in no mood to talk to an escort. None of the mentors are here. What's the point of staying.

I get up and leave, and as soon as I enter the hallway tears start flowing. I tell myself to stop it and that I'm being weak, but I know that I'm not. I'm weeping for the souls about to be lost, and I'm weeping because I don't think I'm strong enough to do what's right and give up out there. I don't want to win, but I can't die. Which means I have to try to win.

Hopelessly, I slump against the wall, sliding down and putting my face in my hands. Someone sits down beside me, draping a big, strong arm over my shoulders. I look up into the face of Patton Graham, the Victor of the 33rd Hunger Games. His face looks more tired and pinched than on tv, and his eyes just look sad. I'm startled enough that I stop crying, trying to shape up in front of my mentor. I haven't given up yet, and he doesn't need to think I have.

"It's okay to cry." he says matter-of-factly.

"How did you do it?" I burst out. "How did you win! I haven't even gone into the Games, and I'm already bawling like a lost goat!"

"You're not loud enough," he says, with just the barest hint of a smile.

"What?" I snap.

"To be a lost goat. You're not loud enough. Nor furry or smelly enough, either," he says, leaning in, and pretending to sniff.

I huff in annoyance. Can't he see the sober reality here? Or is that what being a victor is about? Just not caring anymore and making a joke out of everything?

"What should I do?" I ask sarcastically.

"What do you want to do?" he counters.

"I don't know," I say, fiddling with a loose strand of carpeting on the floor. He's listening to me. It's now or never, and maybe I should just open up. I sigh, leaning my head against the wall, and stare up at the ceiling. "All my life I've wanted to make people happy," I start. "But it just keeps getting harder. No one understands why, and they just think I'm weird. Well, at least everyone but Rangle, and Vera, and my mother, and..." I stop, realizing how long that list is becoming.

Patton is smiling like he scored a point. "And whose opinion do you value, that of the masses, or that of your family and this...Vera?" He looks at me knowingly.

"My family," I say, more surely.

"What would _they_ want you to do?" he prompts.

I feel like I'm a little kid again, being led by a tactful adult to discover for myself what I should have known all along. "They'd want me to try," I start out, and then I say the hardest thing I've ever said. "They'd want me to try - to win. But not just the Games. They'd want me to win - " I wince, but I close my eyes and force out the words: "their approval. By staying the boy they raised me to be. That would make them proud."

"Then that's what you should do," he says.

I look him in the eye, a frown coming over my face as I notice a glaring inconsistency. "Is that what you did?" I ask, my tone challenging.

A moment later I regret those words, as the most heartrending look of regret and lost innocence I've ever seen ravages his face.

"No," he chokes. "And I've never regretted another decision more my whole life." He stands up sharply, banging his head on a cabinet on the wall. Cursing muffledly and with a hand pressed to his head he stalks away.

Now I feel mean. Being a victor is terrible, I can see that. I knew that already the moment I thought about what winning the Games really means. He was trying to keep me from making the same mistake he did. He was being a real mentor, not a Games mentor, and I had to get and pour salt on his old wounds.

Only a moment ago, he got me to say what I really want, and then I hurt him. Time to start living up to those high ideals I talked about back there.

I go to the door of his room and knock timidly. He answers it, his face guarded when he sees it's me. "I want to apologize for what I said back there," I say, gesturing to the hall. "You helped me a lot. Don't blame yourself for bringing out my sacrificial side. It's right, and it's what I want. I could do a lot of good as a Victor, but what I said in the hall still stands, and unless by some miracle I can both stick to it and win the Games, I won't be leaving that arena alive. You're a good man, Mr. Graham. Let bygones be bygones?"

I reach out my hand, and he shakes it heartily, shaking his head at the same time.

"I don't know what to make of you Byron except this: I salute you."

I smile again, this time for real. Then we hear Alasha's voice, summoning us to dinner.

"Coming!" he yells.

He looks at me respectfully, but then the moment passes and turns to a mischievous grin. "Not a good idea to keep womenfolk waiting. We'd better hurry!"

I laugh out loud. "You're right. In fact, dragging our feet now would be a _very_ bad idea!"

Just before we go into the room, I turn and tell him one last thing. "Mr. Graham, you remind me of my father."

Serious again, he looks me in the eye sincerely. "If he's anything like you, that's the best compliment I've ever been paid."

* * *

 **Sorry this update was so ridiculously long in coming. First I needed to catch up on school. Then I got sick. I had spring break, so I suppose I should have been writing then, especially since I was in bed with a cold, but I didn't want this chapter to turn out reading like a fever dream. Hopefully it was worth the wait! What do you think Snowstorm13 and Josephm611? Was it worth it? Either way, let's let bygones be bygones :)**

 **No questions this chapter, but don't let that stop you from leaving a review. The generic 'did your opinion change\who did you like better\etc' type questions still apply.**

 **Hope to hear\read your opinions soon!**


	21. Chocolate and Fern - 11 & 12 Trains

**A SHOUT OUT: VeneratedArt is working on an SYOT that looks promising. She still has quite a few slots open, and needs people to submit mentors too! Check it out! It's called Shattered Souls: The 82nd Hunger Games.**

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

The fragile calm I found with my friends during my goodbyes is hard to maintain, but somehow I manage to make it past all the cameras and onto the train without shedding a tear. My eyes well up several times, but I manage to hold it all in. My district partner is not so lucky.

I saw from the section he was in that he's thirteen, even younger than I am. He's obviously been crying, and is still shaking with sobs, tears leaving tracings on his cheeks. Once inside the train, the escort bustles off to let the mentors know we're here, and I am left alone in the hall with Shahid.

I think that's what his name is, anyway.

"Hey," I say.

He looks at me, and his whole face looks defensive. "I'm fine," he says shortly, and stalks off to his room.

"I didn't say you weren't," I tell his retreating back, but he doesn't answer. _That_ was quick.

Switching my attention to the surroundings, I survey the hall I stand in.

The train is more beautiful than anything I've seen, leaving even the grandeur of the Justice Building lying in the dust. Materials I can't even begin to name are evident everywhere, from the shiny light fixtures to the rich, soft fabric covering the walls. I run my hand over this softness as I walk down the hall, entering in to the door marked "District 11 Female".

Inside is even more elaborate then in the hall, and I close the door gently behind me and lean back against it, my mouth opening in wonder at the room. The carpet is a dark maroon color, and the bedspread is similar, and looks velvety smooth. There are five different pillows in all shapes and sizes lying against a smooth wooden headboard - a dark wood whose name I can't place - and every single one of them is at least twice as fluffy as the one on my bed at home. The lighting comes from a circular bulb set in the center of the ceiling, and it comes out a soft pink color through the rose glass covering it. A few shiny pieces of glass, or perhaps crystal, cut to reflect the light, hang above it.

On an impulse, I slip off my sandals and toss them in the corner, running across the room and then back, reveling in the softness as my feet sink deep into the carpet at every step. After several more trips there and back across the room, I throw myself panting onto the floor and close my eyes. The floor is warm and fuzzy against my cheek, and I give a long shuddering sigh as it sinks in where I am. This place may be beautiful, but it is taking me to the Capitol, and...other things.

Yet I cannot bring myself to waste this moment with unhappiness. I have a chance to be more comfortable than I have ever dreamed of, and if I'm going - I force myself to think the word - die, then I ought to make the best of my stint in the lap of luxury.

There is a sweet smell in the room, rich and heavy. I remind myself to ask Lorza the escort what it is. Then I climb up onto the bed, and pull the blankets into a nest. The darkness of the room and the softness of everything is making me sleepy, and the emotions of the day aren't helping. With my adrenaline wearing off, I am beginning to feel so tired, as though I have run a long, long race but finally have time to rest.

Curling up, I wrap it around myself, suddenly shivering despite the warmth. After a few moments, I give in to sleep, closing my eyes and giving a deep sigh.

The next thing I know, someone has me by the shoulders, shaking me insistently. I am instantly wide awake, and for a moment wonder where I am. Then I remember. There for a moment I almost thought it was my mother, letting me know I'd overslept and it was almost time to go to the fields. Instead, Lorza stands beside me, still wearing her ridiculous gold hoop earrings.

"Hurry!" she hisses. "I'm sorry to wake you, but you were supposed to meet the mentors and then you both disappeared! You'll be able to go right to bed after dinner if you wish, but right now you need to go make Harvyst's acquaintance."

So Harvyst will be mentoring this year. I wondered if it would be her or Seeder. Seeder's our most recent victor, and it was quite the buzz when she and Chaff won almost back to back. I guess it makes sense it would be Harvyst. They're rotating years, and Seeder was last year. I should have thought of that sooner.

"Coming," I say, uncurling myself and hurriedly pulling the bedding back into some semblance of order before leaving the room.

I follow Lorza down the hall, having to jog every few steps to keep up. How she can move so quickly in the shoes she wears is beyond me.

There is a buzz of voices in a room at the back of the train, and for a moment I expect Lorza to go there. Instead she turns suddenly through a side door. I have just time to read the name "Harvyst Callum" written above the door before it shuts behind us. Probably Shahid and Chaff have already taken over in back, and so I'll be meeting my mentor in her own rooms. I hear the upbeat voice of Caesar Flickerman for a moment before the nose suddenly shuts off. Harvyst turns to us, her hand still holding the remote to the television set.

"I'll leave you two to get aquatinted," Lorza says, leaving the room. She sounds a little to eager to get out, and it makes me nervous.

"Sit down," Harvyst says.

I think it's meant to be an invitation, but her voice is so flat and emotionless that it's hard to tell. Her eyes, blue once, are dull and cloudy. She looks like she has no hope.

Thinking back, it's easy to see why. She won before I was born, but I've seen parts of her games in reruns. She was just fifteen when she won, and she went through a lot to get that victory. The District 4 girl was gutting her before she herself collapsed from injuries sustained in an earlier fight and Harvyst managed to kill her.

Now I'm not sure what to think. Should I tell her I'm sorry she won her Games the way she did, and just sit here, or should I start asking her questions?

I take a seat, and Harvyst stares at me for a few seconds, the silence getting ridiculously drawn out.

"Were you watching the Reapings?" I ask, trying to make conversation.

She just nods.

"That's a good idea," I say. "We can look at the other tributes together."

She nods again, then clicks the sound back on.

This doesn't feel right. She's supposed to be mentoring me, not the other way around. I wish that I could help in some way, but really even just thinking about what happened to her terrifies me. What would it be like to win, knowing that if the Capitol hadn't patched you up you would have died easily? What would it be like to win already knowing what it felt like to die violently, already seeing yourself horrifically wounded, and then somehow manage to survive? I can only imagine that it would be terrible. Really, really terrible.

Realizing that I've begun to shake, I turn to the television. It's reruns of the Reapings earlier in the day, which makes sense, since they'd already be over, even Twelve's. I watch as fairly typical - meaning absolutely terrifying - careers volunteer in districts One, Two, and Four. Looks like it's a volunteer year for Four. We never know wit them. Sometimes there's volunteers, sometimes not. The girl from District 5 vomits all over the place when her name is called. A boy volunteers for who appears to be a friend in District 6. In District 7, there's a terrifying looking boy who volunteers, and a pretty, frightened looking girl Reaped. In Eight, the girl faints. The girl in Nine is deaf.

So many of the tributes are young this year. Me, Shahid, Willhelmina from Three, Liam from Twelve, and several others. Sickly, the thought worms its way into my brain that with that many young kids in I won't be the easiest target.

"What do you think?" Harvyst asks me.

I jump. I wasn't expecting her to talk.

"They look like a fairly average group," I say quickly. "The only surprises were the volunteers in Six, Seven, and Nine."

"You can't think that way," Harvyst responds immediately. "There's no such thing as average in the Hunger Games. You might have heard people encourage each other by saying that 'everyone's unique'. That's true, but in the Games it's by no means encouraging. Everyone has their own strengths and weaknesses, and in the arena, those strengths and weaknesses are what spell either your life or your death. Don't think of them as average. Watch them. Find out their skill sets. You're small, so you're going to have to be quick and observant if you want to live. Even then you'll probably die, but it's more likely they'll make it quick."

As she says the last sentence, Harvyst's hand hovers near the edge of her shirt. She's probably remembering just how slow the girl from Four planned to make it in her Games.

I swallow hard. "Okay," I say. "I think I can do that. What weapon should I learn to use?"

Harvyst looks at me. "I thought you were a fighter the second you refused to cry when they called your name," she says. "I can see I wasn't wrong. Do you _have_ any skills?"

"With weapons?" I ask. "No. That's why I was asking you."

"There's not going to be time to become an expert with anything," she answers me, sizing me up. "Try a little bit of everything, and you'll at least have the advantage over some tributes. No matter what the game makers have in the cornucopia, you'll know at least something about it. And learn to improvise too. Make sure you visit all the stations, and focus not just on showing off what you're good at, but improving in what you're not."

I'm startled that Harvyst has just suddenly started talking to me. I can't think of anything I did that would just suddenly earn her trust. Before I have time to think about it much, Lorza calls us to dinner.

Shahid looks a little more confident than he did, and something in Chaff's face makes me think it had to do with their conversation. I tuck into the food heartily, listening to Shaid talking about the things he saw out the window. Grain and corn in District 9, and a huge mountain as we entered District 2. Apparently the train stopped on the border between Nine and Two to refuel, and he did some exploring. I'm envious, wishing I hadn't fallen asleep.

Quickly though, the food removes all thoughts of jealousy from my mind. Where my fear was, there is only chocolate.

Chocolate.

The word does not do justice to the heavenly flavor of this smooth brown liquid. Apparently there are other forms of it as well, but right now I could drink this forever. Lorza tells me to stop so I won't get sick, and with great reluctance I listen to her. It's very hard though, and I make a mental note to drink it morning noon and night in the Capitol. That reminds me of my other mental note from earlier in the day.

"What was the smell in my room?" I ask Lorza.

"Smell?" she says. "If something stinks we can send in an avox to clea-"

"It was a nice smell," I say quickly. Trust a Capitolite to think I was complaining. "Kind of - I don't know - warm, and woody. Sweet."

"Oh, it was probably sandalwood," she says, then goes back to whatever animated conversation she was having with Chaff.

I roll my eyes, asking to be excused from the table. Lorza nods, looking annoyed at the second interruption, and I scurry off to bed.

But not before tucking a large mug of hot chocolate behind my back.

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

I manage to stay in control as we board the train, knowing that my beauty will be the key to a win, and that I won't look beautiful if my face is red and squinched in a million different directions.

Fern and Haymitch are waiting as soon as we reach the back of the train, where a luxurious buffet lies spread before us. That Haymitch is _waiting for us_ is a bit of a misnomer, since he's already passed out on a sofa. Most victors manage to go a few years before turning to alcohol or drugs; not Haymitch. I think he was already drunk when he came back from his Victory Tour.

Not that I really care. The district needed a victor, and whether that victor stayed sober didn't make any difference to the piles of supplies rolling into our district every month. It was the one year I think I can say I was really and truly happy.

Sugar, and tea, and all sorts of wonderful things we could hardly even dream of flooded the pantries and stores, and even the kids in the District home were round and well fed. And then, the 51st Games was played, and District 4 was the new favorite. Nobody really remembers the coalminers, especially when they've only had two victors in fifty-four years. Even the District 11 apple pickers have five.

Fern is a much better victor then Haymitch. Her eyes are clear and snapping, and her hair, though no longer the sandy blonde it was the year she won, is as curly and untamable as ever. There's a vitality to our Fiddle-fern that the other districts just can't seem to match. She won by wit, pluck, skill, and because just about everyone loved her. She can still play the fiddle like nobody else, and she still uses the beat-up one she played all those years ago. It was her musical talent that made the Capitol take notice of her during the interview, giving her the nickname Fiddlefern, and through the rest of the Games she just kept getting noticed. It certainly didn't hurt her any that the arena was an underground cave system, and that she'd worked in the mines for a year before the Games. The age limit for miners was sixteen up until the 20th Games, since the population was low after the rebellion.

It's unfair that all the other districts let their kids get out there and work so young, giving them skills and self-reliance that puts them ahead of us in the Games. District 7 is at an especially big advantage. If the arena has trees and the cornucopia has axes, odds are District 7 will bring another child home. They win nearly as often as the career districts, and they don't even train for crying out loud!

Sure, they haven't won since the 39th Games, but District 1 hasn't had a victor since the 36th. Nobody can believe District 2 is beating them so bad, and One nearly always has a tribute in the final three, but their kids just can't seem to go the distance. Usually they're trained, but just not as smart or quick as the District 2s. Well, that Atalanta girl that's going this year - I saw her volunteer while watching the television this morning - looks formidable. Maybe they'll be in luck. Maybe she'll kill me quickly.

No, I can't count myself out.

I realize everyone is looking at me expectantly. "Did you say something?" I ask, looking at no one in particular.

"I said that it's nice to meet you, Alabaster," Fern answers. Her voice is soft but strong, and I see a hint of sympathy in her eyes.

"It's nice to meet you too," I say, remembering my manners.

"So, Alabaster - and you two Liam, since Haymitch isn't doing his job - do you have any strengths?"

Liam opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. Fern's my mentor, I should get to go first. "I'm likable, and I'm very good at sewing," I say primly.

Fern purses her lips. "Likability only goes so far, and you'd be more likable if you let Liam speak," she says sternly, nodding to Liam.

"I'm the best fighter in school," he boasts smugly, without bothering to turn away from the window. "There isn't one boy in class can take me down. In fax, there isn't one boy in _any_ of the classes."

I roll my eyes. Nat Everdeen could take him down any day, and he's a skinny fellow.

Then Haymitch's voice drifts irritably from the sofa. "Are you going to box the boy from District 2 when he comes at you with a sword? Or the girl with an axe from District 1 that's trying to bash your stomach in?"

I wince. That's what happened to him in his games.

Fern motions for me to follow, and leaves the room. I hear Liam shoot back a smart-alecky reply as we shut the door behind us. Good luck dealing with a drunk Haymitch, Rocky wannabe.

Once we're in my room, Fern motions for me to sit down on the bed. Then she looks at me earnestly.

"You may not have many skills, Alabaster, but you're well fed, and that puts you in a better position than most of our tributes. Half the Games is getting the people to like you. They're not a beauty contest, but if you can get sponsors things just got a whole lot easier. You're pretty. Use that to your advantage, both with the Capitol and with the other tributes. I can tell from your expression that you haven't given up on this yet, but not everyone has to know that. When you get to the Capitol, I want you to flirt for all you're worth. Act shallow."

"But won't that just make me look weak?" I ask. "I don't want to be a target."

"Being weak is actually less likely to get you targeted than being fearsome. If you act tough, you'll either annoy them or convince them you're a real threat, and either way they'll try to take you out. Learn to use weapons, but act clueless when it comes to strategy. Flirt. When you're in the Games, they'll go after the real threats, and save you for later, thinking you'll just be a fun side job."

"I don't like the idea of being a fun side job," I giggle nervously.

Fern grimaces. "With a little luck and skill you won't be. That's why I want you to focus on self defense and edible plants. I have it from a good authority that the arena will be very natural this year," she whispers conspiratorially.

I smile. "I'll start now." Then I speak in a high voice, twirling the end of my braid around one finger and widening my eyes coquettishly. "Thank you so much Ms. Calloway! I'll rebraid my hair so that I'm perfect for them!"

She laughs a genuine laugh, though there's a bitter note to it. "I can see you're already an accomplished actress. Best of luck!"

She leaves the room.

I start undoing the braid, then stop suddenly. Obsidian did it for me during my goodbyes, and it's one of my last links to home...I sigh, and pull the whole thing out before I lose my nerve.

The next few hours are spent experimenting, until I finally decide to wrap it like a crown around my head, tying my white ribbon on the side so that it hangs down past my ear. Satisfied by the look, I take a deep breath and head out to dinner. I'll shower tonight, and redo it in the morning. I'll braid it like a crown with the rest falling down my back, and it'll be all wavy from being braided up all night...

I hadn't really thought about just how much my people skills acquired as my mother's top sales' girl might be in the Games. But now that I think about it, manipulation and some good acting might even be enough to bring me home alive.

Well, provided I pick up some weapons knowledge in the Capitol.

* * *

 **It's funny, these train chapters just keep getting longer! Well, next chapter we'll be arriving in the Capitol. There's some questions below that will help me determine how the next chapters are gonna look, so be sure to leave some nice long reviews. And submit to VeneratedArt's SYOT that I shouted-out at the beginning of this chapter.**

 _ **Who would you like to see in coming chapters?**_

 _ **Is there anyone you're really not missing?**_

 _ **For you submitters, are there any prep-team interactions you're dying to see? Send me in ideas for how particular tributes should react, and if I like them, I'll write them!**_

 _ **Which of the mentors has been your favorite so far?**_

 _ **Would you like to see any of them star in a fic chronicling their Games?**_

 **Also, I have a list of known Victors and Escorts in my universe posted on my profile. Check them out, and let me know if anybody seems** **especially intriguing!**


	22. Glitter and Glamor - Tribute Parade

**I decided to go straight to the parade, and tell that from the POV of an announcer(s) for the Games (Lobelia Bauble and Claudius Templesmith). Afterward are short POV's from each tribute giving some insight into their opinions and first impressions of the Capitol. I want to give a shoutout to** **LadyCordeliaStuart for pioneering the idea of telling chapters such as the parade, interviews, and private sessions from the POV of a Capitol citizen or Gamemaker rather than trying to select tributes to tell it form. It's a great idea, and hopefully you don't mind me using it. I'm a miserable copycat. I suppose you could say I'm writing LadyCordeliaStuart\Hunger Games crossover.**

 **Also, there is a poll on my profile where you can vote for your favorite tributes. I'm already plotting out the bloodbath and early Games, and while, as Katniss says, the Hunger Games aren't a popularity contest, having adoring fans (aka you guys) helps.**

* * *

 **Lobelia Bauble, 45**

 **Hunger Games Head Announcer**

* * *

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, all citizens of glorious Panem! It's the night we've all been waiting for, and in just a few short minutes we will be seeing for the first time the faces of the courageous young players participating in the 54th Annual Hunger Games. We saw them all at the Reapings of course, but I think you'll all agree that the faces of our tributes shine brighter in the hands of our very capable stylists."

The crowd roars it's approval and I sit back in my chair, taking a breath and a sip of water. Beside me, my promising young color commentator, Claudius Templesmith, rattles something off speculations about this year's costumes. Claudius is a very promising young man. I've been watching my job like a hawk ever since he turned up, and won't be one whit surprised if he's the next announcer. My voice has fared much better with him doing more of the talking, and all in all I'm glad the Games' team hired him. He's got a real knack for showmanship.

Right on the button, he finishes speaking and sends the mic back to me as the massive doors to the tribute center begin to creak open. I begin to speak, watching both the doors and the massive screens on the walls. It's at least half mile to the doors, and I'll be relying on the screens for getting details.

"Here they come! Leading the pack with predictable but none the less dazzling style is District 1. Atalanta is positively blissful in a stunning gold dress, a massive peacock tail fanning out behind her. The fact that it's the cocks and not the hens that have tails doesn't make her look any less stunning, and dramatic eye makeup adds a ferocious touch. Add a few sparks, and this girl would be a positive phoenix. Beside her, Caspar radiates menace. He's a gold statue, and a disdainful one at that. All the same, look at those muscles! The gold paint and off the shoulder toga does little to conceal that - bad attitude aside - this guy is a real contender."

"Now _here,_ folks, is menace for you. Eleanor's dress is short and sassy, and her makeup 100% enhances her appearance. Many of you probably noticed she already had some fashion sense before meeting her stylists, as evidenced by the fact that she arrived with her ears and nose sporting jewels and a tattooed rose on her chest. Should she go on to victory, maybe she'll revive the watercolor tattoo fad. Either way, that rose looks much less innocent when paired with her spiky black heels and tarnished silver necklace. There's charms on it, but I can't quite make them out...oh, wait, they're quarry tools. Very clever, and very District 2, especially with the black marble fabric they're both wearing. Mercury is a statue just like his District 1 counterpart, but these two are marble all the way. Watch out, District 1, you may be golden but these two are hard, and I mean literally _hard_ core."

"Willi looks very grown-up in a silver dress, and heels almost as high as Eleanor's. They pulse and throb with electricity. Daniel is carrying himself well, standing tall and looking both kind and remote. His mind's in other places, folks. Hard to believe, since just like Willi's shoes his jumpsuit is crackling with electric current. Well, the flattering, form-fitting cut of both outfits is certainly an improvement on last year's keyboards, though despite the electricity, Three is still no _shock_ er. Perhaps the power theme would be better suited to Five?"

"Cyma's showing plenty of siren wonder in her sea green dress. It sparkles with jewels and shimmers with movement, going between green and blue. Her hair flows like waves over her back and I think I see some little silver fishhooks in it. She better be careful brushing her hair tonight! Enzo is the weed with her sea, and while the wet, slimy leaves aren't the most attractive or comfortable looking thing ever, those muscles certainly are! Letting him go topless was the high point for his stylist; the sea weed wasn't. Well, with Cyma the outfit is stunning, though I'm still trying to figure out what it actually has to do with fishing."

"Five is also trying for an electric spark, but I'm afraid they just aren't pulling it off. A pity too, since by what we _can_ see, I'd say Zita has some nice curves. Hopefully her stylist will remember that for the interviews. Wyatt is the same baggy lightbulb that Zita is, but his scowl makes him a much less inviting picture. Perhaps he just woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning. Most of us don't sleep well on trains."

"Now HERE is sass! Making the most glamorous image of any of the outer Districts so far is Venna! What a beautiful name, and a beautiful girl to go with it. Her hip hugging blue mini skirt leaves little to the imagination, and sparkly white fishnets sure make her seem confident in her appeal. Now she's tipping her cap, and getting a real roar of applause. That sweet little conductress jacket was a great choice. _So_ much better than a train. Hunter...well, I've got less nice things to say about him. Let's just say his figure doesn't lend itself to tight outfits. He is a volunteer though, so maybe we're missing something. If he's trying not to get attention, he's doing it the right way, I'll say that."

"Here comes District 7, and they are...drumroll please...trees. Well, Emmett is, anyway. Her name may be boyish; her outfit is anything but. She looks rather shy, hiding behind her own pinecones, but a revealing slit up to mid thigh tells us her stylist is _not_ shy. She's got some nice bark clog heels on, and they actually look quite nice. As I speak, she's started to uncurl a little. I think she just waved at me! Hi, Emmett! Oh, and isn't that sweet, the little trees in her hair are flowering too. They're opening up just like she is. That's an original touch to the tired tree thing. Phoenix is men-ace-ing, I cannot emphasize that enough. He may be dressed like a lumberjack, but boy does he look special. He volunteered, too. I'd watch my back if _I_ were going into the arena with him!"

"Here's Pixie! Apparently that's the name she goes by, though those of you who saw the Reapings know her as Rose. She looks more confident than she did when her name was called. Let's just draw a merciful veil over her whole Reaping and give her a fresh start, because boy does she look cute. The wraparound green dress with stars _is_ a textile - does anyone else think District 8 has an unfair advantage? Her hair is a bright green to match. Let's keep an eye out for her outfit in the interviews, this girl could be a trend setter. Then there's Cotton. They put him in a suit, and it looks a little too grown up on him, but he's playing the cuteness card for all it's worth. I think I can actually feel my heart melting - hopefully that's curable, since I'd say by the faces in the crowd I'm not the only one feeling it."

"Now the grain district, District 9. They're wearing sparkly gold jumpsuits with waving wheat stalks crowning their heads. Leon is a showman, and Cristina looks a little upstaged. She's a real cutie though, and looks younger than her eighteen years. Word is she's deaf, and think we can all sympathize with her. Let's cheer so loud the air vibrates and give her some confidence, what do you all think? Let's TURN IT UP!"

I take another breath and sip of water as a wave of cheering sweeps over the crowd. Then it's wipe my sweaty hair out of my eyes and start describing District 10, a less than inspiring sight. At least they aren't wearing baggy animal suits this year...actually, these outfits are kinda growing on me. I summon up some enthusiasm and soldier on.

"Yee-haw, it's cops and robbers this year in District 10! Ricotta is the cop, and she's practically coming out the top of her cowgirl vest. Nice sheriff's badge, girl. Byron is a proper cowpoke as a robber, and unlike his breathless and definitely uncomfortable District partner, he's playing it to the crowd! Ricotta may be trying to smile, but Byron has the reined in and on the bit. He's slouching along with a bandanna over his face, and looks a real rascal. If it's any reflection on his real personality, I'd say watch out. This fellow's not to be trusted."

"With the young tributes from District 11, I expected them to be playing just for cuteness points, and I was prepared to give them my sympathy. You know what? Turns out they don't need it! Capri is fetching, almost bewitching. The crowd's a lot more engaged than they usually are in the outer districts, and I think it's her. No fourteen year old should look this sexy, but she pulls it off with cat-eye makeup and a gorgeous blue dress patterned with apples. There's a silver slit down the side, and with silver clip-on hoop earrings, she's got a gypsy look to her. Here's one dangerous kid. Shahid also looks better than I expected, even thug hue's dressed as an orchard worker. He's chewing on a piece of straw so hard he might bite it in half. He may be small, but I can tell there's a temperamental, ticking time bomb waiting to go off inside. Will the bloodbath detonate it? Who knows! I'm just as eager as you are to see!"

"Last, and I wish I could say not least, is District 12. Unfortunately, they're both last and least this year. How could any stylist possibly think that a shapeless blob of coal would be an attractive costume for a sixteen year old girl? I don't care how ugly she might be, but there's got to be at least some curve to show off. Alabaster isn't an ugly girl, and personally I think I'll have a word with her stylist so we don't see this again at the interviews. Honestly, she looked prettier at the Reaping. Liam's not much better, but at least he's a rather pouty-cute lump of coal. Alabaster just looks humiliated."

"We now take a break for a word from our top Games sponsor this year, Print-a-Pet! See you all after the pause, to break down this year's outfits, first impressions, and more!"

Whew. I sit back in my chair as I go off the air. I think when the break is over Claudius can do most of the talking. All in all though, the costumes were pretty good this year. Twelve was bad as usual, but some of the other usual fails actually looked pretty great, most notably Ten and Eleven.

This is going to be a good games, I can just feel it.

And I'm a showbiz girl. My first impressions never, ever lie.

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

Well, I think I made a good impression. They sure cheered for me.

There were plenty of tributes who came after me, but that doesn't really matter too much as long as I got a good amount of fans. I'll be with the careers, so sponsors aren't going to be a real factor in the Games until we split, most likely. I have to say I think I looked absolutely gorgeous. The gold peacock feathers were totally my style: feminine yet ferocious.

My prep team giggles too much and my stylist looks just plain weird, but as long as she doesn't modify my body I can always take back control when I'm victor.

Everything is going according to plan.

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

The Capitol is even crazier than it looks on television. The mentors tried to warn me, but even then I never expected the noise and the color. It makes District 1 look like a pig sty comparison.

I wonder how it looks to the District 10 tributes, who actually _live_ in a pig sty?

Wh really cares. I looked hot and that's all that matters. Too bad Atalanta is so averse to me. Pretending to care about her and gaining her trust was a fairly high item on my pre-Games to-do list. Oh well, there's still plenty of time during training to make alliances and scope out tributes.

As long as I'm able to wash off all this gold paint...

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

I connected well with my prep team the minute they complimented me on my nose ring, and so far they haven't disappointed me. They made me look more fierce than I ever could have on my own, and my mentors have already been a huge help. Spice especially. We're getting along so well together.

Training's going to be exciting, though I can't help wondering what the other careers will think of me. Even with the help of my prep team, stylist, mentor, and escort, I'm not exactly the most vicious person ever.

I am trained though, and that must count for _something_ with them. There's a reason I was chosen to volunteer, after all.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

There's a reason District 2 wins the Games so often. We deserve the best, and we get it. Just look at the parade.

The tributes from Twelve were dressed like lumps of coal, and they were lucky to the notice of being laughed at. We District 2's were lumps of rock, but everybody loved us. It all depends on how you shape it.

We were cut stone, hard and impenetrable, works of art brought about by hours with the prep teams. It was torturous, but we won through. District 12 was tasteless and unrefined, and that's all they'll ever be.

I shone out above all the others. Even Ellie with her wicked heels and sassy black marble dress couldn't touch me.

This is going to be so much fun. I can't wait for training, when I can put the finishing touches on my tyrannical angle. All I have to do is look at those outer district worms to have them groveling at my feet.

If it's like this being a tribute, what will happen when I'm a victor?

* * *

 **Willi Dye, 12**

 **District 3 Female**

* * *

This is amazing. The dress they had me in was the most gorgeous thing ever, and probably cost more than the value of all my mother's employees combined. Were we to sell every single thing we owned, we'd still be no better than paupers here.

It's an amazing feeling. Everyone is treating me like a princess, and considering that my brother won, I practically am part of a royal family.

That Capri Kane girl that thought she was so amazing is going to pee herself when she sees what I can do with a bow and arrow. Who knows? Maybe the careers will even ask me to join them.

I'd probably say no.

After all, I don't need anyone without my skill set slowing me down.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

I think I made a good impression, at least I hope I did, I think, throwing myself down on the bed in my room. The training center is ridiculously luxurious, but right now I'm just trying to process what happened. Almost every citizen in the entire Capitol was watching me, and they liked me!

But Eb wasn't there.

The ache of missing her hits me in the midsection, and I pull my shoes off before curling up on top of the bed. It's too big, like everything here, and I feel very small and alone. We're just kids. All most of us want to do is grow up, marry our girlfriends or boyfriends, and start a family of our own.

I clasp The lock of Ebony's hair to my chest, clutching it so hard my knuckles turn whit. I squeeze my eyes shut, but all the same a tear finds its way out.

They are taking everything from me here. They made me stand naked in front of a group of people I'd never met in my life, criticized my body like I wasn't even there, and proceeded to make a bunch of painful 'improvements'.

It's not enough to take our lives, they want our dignity as well.

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

What a gorgeous dress. Delphina would just about throw a fit if she saw it.

I am smoother and cleaner than I've ever been in my life, and the discomfort my prep team put me through was worth it to look like this. Just one complaint: couldn't they assign the girls all-female prep teams and the guys all-male? Because lets just say that staying naked in front of a guy you met three minutes ago is a less than pleasant experience.

I run my hand down the smooth silk of my bodice, scowling as my district partner Enzo slides into the elevator next to me, pushing the button marked 4. He's completely insufferable, flirting with me on the train and actually getting tipsy! It makes me furious.

These are the Games, not a skylark, and he needs to sober up.

I can officially say that whatever hair brained attraction had me drooling over him at the Reaping, I am over it now.

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

My head has ached a little all day from my hijinks on the train, and I regret what happened. Cyma must think I'm the biggest clown in the Games. Did I actually flirt with her?

Once I'm back in my room I release the groan that's been building up inside me. I am such an idiot.

Thank goodness that moment wasn't on camera, or I'd end up victor only to be murdered by my vengeful girlfriend the moment I arrived home.

No more whisky, no more flirting, you stick to that Enzo.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

If I hand't cried out every drop of moisture already, I'd have burst into tears the moment I reached my room. As it is, I tear off my stupid lightbulb costume and throw it across the room. Then I climb in the shower and scrub every bit of makeup and sparkly body powder from my face and arms.

Never, ever, again.

Right when I thought that I was going into the Hunger Games, so it must be as bad as it could get, they stripped off my clothes and hauled me around a room ripping off my hair and, it felt like, most of my skin. My dignity went straight down the drain with it.

And two of them were _men!_

Sure, I'm a romantic, and I want to get married and all that, but I want to get married _to my husband!_ I don't want to strip naked for any guy that's there. No man has ever seen me like that, except perhaps my father, and even then the last time I was naked where anyone could see me I was four years old.

It was humiliating, and even though I don't think I had tears left, my eyes begin to prickle with anger and helplessness at the memory.

Never, _EVER,_ again!

I'll fight my prep team first. Either only Lairza - the girl - gets to dress me, or none of them do. I'll dress myself for the interviews if that's the way they want it.

* * *

 **Wyatt Foster, 15**

 **District 5 Male**

* * *

Lightbulbs. Wow. Just wow.

We were the worst tributes there, except maybe Twelve. Zita was a mess too, kept asking me to hold her hand, etc, etc.

She's such a sap. She needs to dry up and just accept that she's about to die. Anyone who doesn't is an incurable optimist and an idiot. Optimism is a disease.

At least I'll get to enjoy my life while it lasts, by accepting the inevitable.

Death.

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

Hopefully the makeup they put on me covered up how much I was blushing. Sure, I looked pretty and the crowd loved me, but I'm not used to being so...exposed. That skirt was so tight! And short!

I bury my face in my hands once we reach the elevator, giggling and crying a little at the same time. The escort tries to comfort me, but I wave her off. The whole situation is just so laughable...

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

I was terrible and I know it. I've always been...well fed, and those conductor uniforms aren't the slightest bit flattering on a more rounded body type. I looked suffocated and uncomfortable, and frankly, I was.

Venna breaks down into giggles and tears the moment we reach the elevator, and I feel much the same. So many ridiculously improbable things have happened to me over the past few days, starting with witnessing the murder back in Six.

I suppose it doesn't really matter too much. I never thought I was going to win anyway.

I volunteered to freely lay down my life for my friend, and that's still what I plan on doing. I'll try to survive, but I never thought I would.

There's always hope, but my portion is very, very small.

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

I didn't panic! I should be proud of myself for that. I didn't panic when the prep team stripped me down, or when I had to stand in front of millions of people screaming for my blood.

The fact that beyond that I managed a smile and a wave is practically a miracle.

It's a big achievement for me, and I cling to my boosted confidence with a desperate grip. If I can improve in the little things, like keeping calm, then maybe I can do even more impossible things.

Like win the Hunger Games and go home to Luke...

* * *

 **Phoenix Hemlock, 18**

 **District 7 Male**

* * *

They cheered a lot for District 7, and since once the bloodbath ends I'll be the only District 7 tribute standing...well, the odds are in my favor for once, I'll put it that way.

I'm already raring to go. The next few days of training will be good, as they'll give my leg wound a chance to finish healing, but all the same I wish we could get straight down to business.

My hands tremble at the thought of wielding an axe as a weapon once again.

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

 _Green hair?_ At least it wasn't pink! I think, storming off to my room.

I'm not sure what's gotten into me. I just feel mad. It might be residual annoyance from my humiliating meeting with my prep team, but I just can't help it, and frankly I don't war to.

The only person I respect in this entire building right now is Cotton. He's sane, a link to home.

When he had me sing him to sleep that night on the train, I felt something inside me cracking for him. It's not right that they do this to us, especially not to an innocent twelve year old like him. As far as I'm concerned, my prep team is just as much an accomplice in our murders as whoever kills us in the arena.

We're lambs led to the slaughter, and they're focused on brushing and dyeing our wool so we look nice.

* * *

 **Cotton Ombre, 12**

 **District 8 Male**

* * *

That was terrifying. The whole thing is bewildering.

I'm still not sure what's going on. The prep team took my clothes, and with them my blue bandanna. I was going to use that as a token! I tried to tell them, but they just laughed. Everything here is so strange and foreign.

I know she must be tired and worried about training, but maybe Pixie will sing to me again tonight.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

I've been glued to Eilis ever since we got off the train. She's translated everything for me, and begun to open up about herself as well. She still won't tell me what she did that got her taken by the Capitol, but I know that she's from District 4 and has two younger siblings and a fiancé back home.

Already she has managed to get me to tell her things about myself that I have told no one, and I'm not sure how. There's something inherently trustworthy. Maybe it's her intense green eyes, or the fact that she's been mistreated by the Capitol.

After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

* * *

 **Leon Rayner, 17**

 **District 9 Male**

* * *

This place is sure sweet. I'm not sure about all the finery and the laughter, but I can tell you it's a thieves paradise, bro.

I've already goat bracelet, three watches, and a pair of earrings. And I've pranked and avox. And called my District partner names to her face, which is quite entertaining since she just nods and smiles. Being deaf would sure suck.

But I'm not deaf, so maybe I've got a chance.

Too bad Cristina doesn't.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

The Capitol is everything I dreamed it would be, at least that's what I keep telling myself. It's the color of candy and the fabrics are more beautiful than even the stuff the mayor's wife wears.

What's really too bad is that my stylists stuck me in a corset. Halfway through the parade I was lightheaded, and I probably looked drunk after that.

Why oh why must I love food so?

Then again, bodily food reserves - delicate speech for 'fat' - might keep me from starving in the Games...

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

I've always thought that cops and robbers would be a really good pick for District 10 parade outfits. I just didn't expect to be the one wearing them.

Also, just because I have a good stylist doesn't mean they skipped prep. I went through it in all its humiliating glory.

The Games aren't getting any easier, and if anything, they're getting worse. The only good thing has been getting to know Patton. He's a really good guy, and he's hurting a lot. The more I talk to him, the more I think that my strategy for the Games is the right one.

I probably won't win, but he doesn't seem to think winning was worth it.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

I scared myself when I saw my face on the screen. I looked older, terrifying, and more than a little indecent.

For me, it hammers home the reality of the Games. The farther along we get, the more amped up everything is, and the higher the stakes are. It'll stay that way until the trumpet sounds, announcing a victor.

I can only hope the trumpet will be sounding for me.

* * *

 **Shahid Howe, 13**

 **District 11 Male**

* * *

Well, nothing's been too bad so far. At least, there hasn't been anything I can't handle.

The gadgets around here are amazing, and I feel like a little kid in a cant store half the time. I'm super excited for training. Maybe the District 3's will teach me some of the tricks of the trade.

I don't know which one I should talk to. The boy looks a lot older than me, and the girl is an established snob. At least that's how she seemed while she was waiting for the chariots. Constantly talking loud and cracking jokes that no one was listening to.

She probably won't make it far, and I am unrepentantly glad of that. There's at least one person that won't be making it past me in the Games!

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

A lump of coal!

How could they do that to me? Seriously, a baggy crop topped miner's suit would have been better. Just about the only good thing I can say about my stylist and my prep team is that they didn't make me wear anything indecent.

Then again, they couldn't stop making suggestive comments to my face while I was being prepped.

It's not fair that I was Reaped, but you know what's even more unfair?

That I was Reaped from District 12.

* * *

 **Liam Cox, 14**

 **District 12 Male**

* * *

I suppose I should be angry or humiliated over my parade costume. Alabaster certainly appears to be in the throes of both emotions.

However, I just can't seem to summon up the energy. Some people find it grating and aggravating that I'm so emotionally detached. I think I'm apathetic, or mean, or just don't care. Mom thinks that I damaged the center in my brain where people feel strong emotions when I fell off the kitchen table as a kid.

It's a reasonable explanation, and I just don't care, honestly. That's been one perk of being here.

People say I'm 'strong' or 'stoic' instead of 'disinterested' and 'lethargic'.

I suppose I could get used to life here, but how is a fourteen year old supposed to win the Games?

Espescially a fourteen ear old from District 12!

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed the Chapter! Be sure and vote in the poll!**

 _ **Whose parade outfit was your favorite?**_

 _ **Whose attitude on the Games do you admire the most so far?**_

 _ **Whose attitude**_ ** _would you be most likely to have?_**

 ** _If the answers to whose you admire and whose you would have are different, why?_**

 ** _If you could kill one tribute in the bloodbath, who would it be?_**

 ** _If you could grant immunity to one tribute in the bloodbath, who would it be?_**

* * *

 **That's all, folks!**

 _ **P. S. What did you think of the way I formatted this chapter?**_

 **That's all for real, folks!**


	23. Anger and Friendship - Training Day 1

**Here is the first training chapter! Whoo** **hoo! Sorry I hadn't updated in a while, but I've been too busy to spend much time on the computer. the good news is, I finally copied down the tributes info into a notebook, so I can write even when I don't have computer access! Anyway, I've got the bloodbath planned ahead of time, so I know who I'm going to kill, and you don't! Mwahahahaha!**

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

The emotional seesaw of my horrible prepping, dismal parade performance, and subsequent tears left me exhausted. Thank goodness I was so tired, because I slept like a log and am actually more rested than I often am at home.

I go out to breakfast, keeping my head down. Speaking only threatens to break my fragile grasp on calm, and I desperately want to stay strong. Quickly, that resolve deteriorates. Lucretia introduces me to Flare, who will be mentoring me this year. It's terrible; I can't even remember how she won. The more she tries to draw me out, the more monosyllabic my answers get. At last I duck my head, digging into a pile of fried potato shreds, and refusing to speak.

That makes two of us. Wyatt hasn't spoken once since his outburst on the train.

Sighing, I push my plate away, unable to hold another bite.

"Zita, why don't you and Malus go and get into your clothes for training? I'm sure they'll be gorgeous!"

"No," I say, remembering my resolution after the parade. "If anyone helps me from now on, it'll be Lairza."

"Whyever on earth, Zita," Lucretia admonishes.

"Because I'm not letting a man see me naked!" I flash out, my face burning with humiliation. I will not, I will not, I _will not!_

Lucretia purses her lips in indignation, prepared to chew my out for my insubordination, and I flee the room. A moment later Lairza comes in, holding a bag in her hands.

"I talked to them," she says. "I still think this is silly, but they won't bother you again."

Her tone is vaguely exasperated, and I wonder how they can think this way in the Capitol. Do they have no respect for their bodies? Or do they just plain not care? The second option seems considerably more likely.

Lairza opens the bag, her long pink-streaked hair getting in the way. She lays out tight black pants with pink striping down the sides, a black tank top, and a bright neon pink jacket. I wish that it could've been red, but I've pushed my luck with the prep team far enough. I submit meekly as she adjusts the outfit, unzipping the pink jacket just a little, pulling the waistband on my pants higher...how am I going to train in this? I'll be afraid of messing up my clothes the entire time.

Not that I really know what I'm doing anyway. I'll never be able to learn to use a weapon. I never _wanted_ to.

A single tear leaks down my cheek. Every day in the Capitol loses me a bit more of whatever innocence I have left. It's so horribly _wrong_. Why should I, who have never once hurt that Capitol, and want only to start a family and live my life in peace, be punished for the crimes of a generation ing dead?

Lairza busies herself pulling my hair back into a sleek ponytail, and I remain with my head bowed. They all know I'm a coward, what's the use of staying strong? I vomited at the reaping. It's not like anyone will sponsor me anyway.

Lucretia calls me for training and I follow her to the elevator, resolved to survive the day. Who knows, I might manage not to make a complete fool of myself. Maybe the little girl from Eleven or the boy from Eight would take me as an ally.

The moment the elevator opens, I freeze. There are weapons everywhere, and even the twelve year olds are my height. This is no place for me to be, and yet my feet carry me into line as a tall man with a long scar on his face stands up and begins to speak. His name is Socrates, and he tells us about the different stations. There is a station for learning to its knots, a station for swords, a station for climbing, a station for making fires and building shelters, even a station for learning about edible bugs! I suppose that knowledge might come in handy, but the very idea is disgusting. Bugs are bad enough crawling in a corner, but _eating_ them! I shudder.

He finishes his speech, and I move for the fire station. Freezing to death would be a miserable way to die, and in the arena building a fire won't hurt any of the others. It's a skill I can stomach.

Apparently there's a different way to start a fire for every terrain. The trainer soon realizes that I know nothing, and starts out with the basics. She teaches me how to start with a dry material, like tiny twigs from the dead branch of a tree, or bits of moss. She teaches me that some of the things you would expect to be good for starting a fire aren't always. For example, pine needles have to be very dry and airy, otherwise they'll smother. also, dead sticks off the forest floor are often wet. If at all possible, breaking dead limbs off of a tree will get the driest wood.

Once I have the materials to start a fire, the trainer teaches me the actual methods. There's an ingenious little tool called a fire drill, that when twisted rapidly, will ignite dry tinder. It's very easy to make, and soon I begin to feel that I might actually be good at _something._

Using rocks or flint and steel to create sparks is, it turns out, much harder. The rocks make my wrists sore with holding them up, and whatever sparks I manage to get are pitiful, winking out before they can land on the tinder. I begin to get frustrated, tears prickling my eyelids. The trainer seems to sense this, and suggests that I take a break.

I head over to a drinking fountain in the corner, and my attention is drawn by a burst of raucous laughter from the careers. The girl from District 1 is hurling spears into a target, her district partner and some of the others applauding at her lethal aim. I shiver.

The spears are long and slender, to beautiful to be deadly, and yet I know that they are. District 5 tributes have ended up on the wrong side of a spear before, and I can't imagine what it would be like. To be running, thinking you were safe, and then have a horrid, cold piece of metal strike you down. Metal would feel so _wrong_ and cruel inside of a person.

I switch the water off and wipe my mouth dry on my sleeve. I'm not feeling very thirsty anymore.

The girl catches me looking, and waves at me. Her partner laughs, and then she hurls the spear my direction.

I flinch violently and hit the ground, then look up, realizing that I'm alive. Gales of laughter bounce off my ears, and I realize the spear never even left her hand. Every eye in the training center is fixed on me.

My face turns red and flushes with heat as I scramble to my knees.

The boy from District 2 runs toward me, and is at my side in a flash. He offers me a hand up, and I furiously take it. He pulls me to my feet, and then lets go a moment before I'm steady.

I crash down again.

"Clumsy," he mutters. "You could have dragged me over!"

Anger floods me and I stand up, shaking with rage. "Don't you touch me!" I hiss.

He holds up his hands in a falsely placating gesture. "Now hold on, I was only trying to help. After all, you looked _so_ frightened. I was afraid you might faint! Weren't you, Cyma?" He turns to the girl from Four. "Didn't she look like she was going to faint?"

A slow smile spreads across Cyma's face and she nods cruelly.

"She's much to pretty to be all by herself, aren't you baby doll? Why don't you hang with us?" She pretends to tuck a stray curl of hair behind my ear, but gives a vicious tug at the last second.

Pain flashes through my scalp and angry tears begin to flow as my hand flashes up and across her face. I tear myself free, leaving what feels like half my scalp in her grip, and run toward the elevator, sobbing.

That was against the rules! They aren't allowed to hurt other tributes or fight with them before the Games, Socrates said so!

I put a hand to my head where my hair was pulled, feeling moisture. I don't know whether it's sweat or blood.

I slapped a career!

She'll kill me! She'll come for me in the bloodbath. I'll die with a spear in my side, or maybe she'll drag it out...

Somehow I stumble back to my rooms, where Lucretia and Flare are immediately on top of me, asking what happened. I hiccup out the story, voicing my fears of the game makers punishing me for slapping Cyma - the girl from Four. Lucretia tries to comfort me, saying that I was completely justified in defending myself.

"You showed spirit, Zita," she says.

As I flinch, nearly bursting into fresh tears from the pain of Lairza cleaning the small wound on my scalp, I don't feel spirited at all.

They're going to kill me.

Despite Flare and Lucretia's entreaties, I refuse to return to training. Now _everyone_ sees me for the coward I am. There will be no fresh start or allies for me. After all, no one want's to be seen near a girl that's earned the wrath of the careers.

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

As soon as the District 5 girl has fled sobbing from the room, I drag my district partner aside.

"That was foolish and irresponsible!" I tell him. "If we don't score high no one will take us seriously. And you know who scores us? The game makers. And you know who doesn't like tributes breaking the rules? The game makers. We need to control ourselves. Save your aggression for the arena!"

"Calm down Ellie," he laughs. "We weren't even fighting. I just tried to help her up."

He's lying. This insufferable fool of a district partner is lying to my face. Boys are so ridiculous. This kind of ridiculous chest-beating and aggressiveness is only going to get us in trouble. The games are a big enough challenge without ticking off the game makers to boot.

But there's nothing I can do about his behavior. He's made no secret of the fact that he thinks I'm weak, as though my grandparents bought my way to the volunteer position or something. So he doesn't have a bunch of money. that's not my fault. I don't either! And I _earned_ this spot. If something happens to the cornucopia during the games, he'll be awfully glad that I know about more than just weapons. Still, his insinuations of inferiority irk me. Time to prove them wrong.

I stomp over to the weapons rack and grab a black bow with dark arrows. I look carefully at the weapon. I'm not sure what the vow is made of, but the arrows are carbon. That's good. Carbon arrows are so expensive that we don't use them in training back in Two, but I know about them. They're lighter and fly faster than other arrows.

Stringing the bow, I take a shooting stance and nock an arrow. Adjusting from my usual aiming point to compensate for the lighter arrows, I let fly. The arrow strikes the second-smallest ring. Not bad, but I'm better than that. I whip off shot after shot until the quiver is empty, then retrieve my arrows and start again. The familiarity of the action - nock, draw, aim, release, nock, draw, aim, release - helps me regain some confidence. I notice Mercury watching from the throwing knives section, and I'm pretty sure the envy on his face isn't my imagination.

Throwing knives are technically ranged weapons, but a bow can shoot much farther. I'm a good shot from as far as two-hundred feet. Usually, the cornucopia is positioned in a clearing of around that size. That means that if I stand in the mouth of the cornucopia with a bow, I'll be able to take my pick of targets during the bloodbath.

At the same time, I remind myself, there's no need to get carried away. My unconventional strategy of appearing as a weaker career is crucial.

With that in mind, I put the bow back and head over to edible plants. There's a matching game that is played on a screen, where images of different leaves, roots, plants, and berries show up. I drag the images to the side, dropping them on top of the red square if they are poisonous and the green square if they're safe.

After only a few tries, I'm at one hundred percent. Well, at least for conventional terrain.

I switch the environment to "Jungle", and start.

Time to brush up on some variety, since there's no guarantee _what_ the arena will be.

* * *

 **Wyatt Foster, 15**

 **District 5 Male**

* * *

The supple cording bends easily to my every manipulation as I wind it around itself over and over again. I hold up the finished product, inspecting it sullenly. The trainer is all praises, but I ignore her.

Yes, what I am holding forms a respectable noose, but so what? How would I ever _hang_ a tribute in the Games? The idea is completely ridiculous. the only tribute I could ever get close enough to to do anything of the sort is myself. Humph. I may be desperate, but not toe commit suicide.

Zita's right that we're all going to die, but I'd never do anything as wimpy as her. Running bawling out of the room! Huh.

I don't even know why she was talking to the careers in the first place.

Looking back toward the pack, I see Atalanta from One still tossing spears tirelessly into a hole-riddled dummy. Doesn't she ever get tired? She must have been throwing spears for a good two hours!

Yep. I look at a clock on the wall and see that my estimate is exactly right. Training began at 10:00 and it is now past noon. Lunch will be in an hour.

None of the tributes look particularly hungry. The careers are all busy showing off as usual, often tossing banter back and forth with their district partner. The exception to this rule is Four. Cyma is happily tossing spears with Atalanta, taking tips from the other girl's technique. Enzo is wrestling hard with a trainer, and has been very obviously keeping his distance from Cyma all day.

I could use this to my advantage. A split career pack could be manipulated to implode.

Perhaps if I could manage to steal supplies during the night they would blame whoever was on watch, and tensions might escalate. Teenagers are touchy enough without being in a life or death situation or not getting enough sleep. A few days of hard rations, and almost anything will tip the scales. Maybe I could damage their food somehow, poison it or something. Then they'd blame whoever cooked it.

The only problem with these plans is that they require me to somehow get into the career camp. That would be a real challenge, and the very idea has me sick with fear. When careers find someone trying to poison their food or something of that sort, they don't kill the intruder quickly.

I swallow hard, remembering some of the horrible things done in past games.

Doing my best to blot out the images, I harden my resolve and head over to the poisons station. I have to learn what to use, or my plan won't even be an option.

The huge boy from District 7 is already there, and he gives me a twisted grin as I approach.

I'm not sure what's up with him. He's big, but there's something else unsettling about him. I suppose the fact that he's spent all day learning about poisons should frighten me as well. Right now he's got a fake frog, and is squeezing a milky liquid out of it and onto a stake. He's enjoying squeezing that frog way too much, I think, feeling thankful that it's not real.

The little woman who is manning the station sits me right down, and begins telling me about all sorts of roots and berries that cause a variety of unpleasant symptoms. Hearing those symptoms described in detail makes me think maybe this wasn't the best station to visit right before lunch, but I soldier on until it's time for the break.

Now I have some idea of what I'm doing.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

As I heap my plate from a table set in the corner of the room, I can't help grimacing at my less than stellar performance so far. I tried working with the bow and arrows, but I have to face the fact that I was _terrible_. The District 2 girl beat me, and even the little girl from District 3 was much better than me. I resolve to sit next to her at lunch. We have the same favorite weapon, maybe she'd want an alliance?

I finish filling my plate and head over to the tables. I slide onto a bench next to the girl from Three.

"Hi," I say. "What's your name? I'm Capri."

"Wilhelmina," she says. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I saw you using the bows and arrows," I say. "You were pretty good."

She snorts.

"Anyway, I was wondering if you might consider an alliance?"

Wilhelmina looks at em like I'm crazy.

"No," she says. "If I'm with anybody, I'm with the careers." she stands up, whisks her plate into her hands, and leaves me alone.

Startled, I turn my attention to my plate, shoveling forkfuls of a starchy green bean into my mouth. Soya beans. We eat them sometimes in Eleven. There's even a girl in my class at school names Soya.

I did not expect that from the girl from District 3 - Wilhelmina, I remind myself. How naive is she? To think she has even the slightest chance at being part of the career pack? It's stupid on so many levels that I can hardly even think about it. She's going to get herself killed if she trusts _them._

I start on a slab of chicken in a sweet sauce, shoveling hungry forkfuls into my mouth. The euphoric knowledge of being able to eat whatever I want, whenever I want, as much as I want, still hasn't worn off yet. I must have stayed up half the night last night drinking more hot chocolate. I think they'll have a shortage by the time my stay here is over.

But I deserve a little indulgence. If they can send me into a death match, I can darn well drink up their chocolate!

Full at last, I push my plate back and heave a contended sigh. An avox comes around, clearing away the dishes as most of us finish eating. I look around, thinking about which station I should visit once lunch is over. I select shelter, knowing that that's a nice, universal skill.

If I know shelter, a tent will be one less thing to worry about getting at the cornucopia. Depending on the terrain, I might not even have a need to go into the bloodbath at all.

the thought is encouraging. I am not at all comfortable with slugging it out against kids with weapons, twice as heavy as me. It's a terrifying notion, and the idea of fading off into the distance before the fighting has even ended is much more attractive.

1:30 reads the clock and lunch ends, so I head straight to shelter. There's an older man there, with grey eyes that are almost kind. I wonder where the trainers come from. Capitol citizens don't strike me as having much practical knowledge to offer tributes. Are they brought here from the districts? Are they criminals? Or are they perhaps being rewarded for outstanding citizenship by being allowed to move to the Capitol?

Not for the first time, I realize just how little I know about the country controlling my life.

Plaiting grasses and reeds over a framework of bent sticks, I feel someones hot breath on my neck, and look over my shoulder to see Liam, the boy from District 12. He's about my age, and I wonder what he wants.

He pleas his hands over mine, and begins to weave. Angrily, I shake him off.

"I'm doing fine, thanks," I say. What was he doing?

He smiles cockily. "Let me know if you need any help. I'm always there for a pretty girl."

I roll my eyes and suppress a groan. Who ever heard of a fourteen year old fancying himself with the ladies? Sure, he has nice eyes, but it's not like he's anything of a looker. Besides, training for the Hunger Games is not the time to be trying to build potential romances!

I shake my head. He better grow up fast.

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

Twisting the beargrass tightly in my hands, I inhale its sweet, lemony scent. It smells like home, and I remember stalking prairie dogs through that very grass, the sun beating down on my back.

Yes, I reflect, ruefully scratching my neck. Don't forget the sun.

I knew on my way to the reaping that I was going to have a whopping sunburn, and I was right. All through the train ride my neck, shoulders, and nose were on fire. The prep team put some sort of lotion on it before the chariot rides, but now the dead skin is peeling off in sheets. And itching like crazy.

My hands are sore from plaiting the thick grass, and I look up for a moment, stretching my stiff shoulders and looking around.

The District 7 girl, Emmett, is throwing hatchets at a dummy. She looks good. More often than not, her blade sticks in her intended target. If I were to have an ally it would probably be Emmett, but I know that I have to go this alone. It's safer that way, and easier. I don't want to have to stab an ally in the back.

As I watch, Cyma from Four walks over, crossing her arms and watching Emmett critically. Emmett's next cast sticks in the dummy's shoulder, but it wasn't a very powerful throw. Her arms must be getting tired.

"You have to put some muscle into it," Cyma coaches in a patronizing voice.

Emmett ignores her, throwing again.

Cyma rolls her eyes. "Come on, put your back into it. My great-grandmother has more life in her, God rest her soul."

I snigger slightly. That was a pretty good taunt, I have to admit.

All the same, I'm not a bit disappointed when the axe trainer warns Cyma off, and I go back to twisting my rope. As I work, I can't shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

Looking up, I see I wasn't wrong. It's Cotton again. He's been following me all day, and I'm beginning to regret being friendly with him on the train. He has no chance of winning, and if he's following me around the arena I'll be easy to track and slow. Ignoring him, I keep at the rope. I really ought to tell him to go away, I think. this is what training is for: setting the tone and the stage for the games.

"Are you looking for something?" I ask, my voice sharper than intended.

He flinches. "No, I was just watching." Then, hesitantly: "Could you teach me how to do that?"

"No!" I say. "I'm busy. Besides, I'm bored with this. You can finish it if you want." I toss the cord at his feet, and stalk away toward edible plants. For a moment I feel bad for my treatment of Cotton, but what else can I do? These are the games. There are no friends except by necessity, and I don't need him.

I'm playing right into the Capitol's hands, and I hate it. They're trying to turn us against each other, and it's working.

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

"What not do I tie?" I ask the boy squatting next to me. Then I giggle. "I can never remember whether it's a figure eight or a slip knot."

Patiently, Danny Sparks puts his hands over mine and explains which not to tie and why. I must confess I'm only listening with one ear. It's a slip knot of course, and I'm only pretending I don't know. The weaker and more shallow I seem, the more people will be startled to see me turn lethal. So, I'm shamelessly flirting with a boy a year younger than me. If anyone had told me last year that this is where I'd be, I probably would have soaped their windows.

I'm quite happy with the way my plan is working. My eye for distances and angles, honed by years of a) working in District 6, and b) pranking people, has served me well when being translated to more 'practical' traps.

Practical. I shiver. By practical, I mean lethal. There's something kind of twisted about the fact that the same principle is used to drop a bucket of water on someones head as to drop a bucket of rocks, or that the same kinds of bait lure a person into position to be hit by throwing knives as to be sprayed with a hose. It's a twisted reality in the Hunger Games.

* * *

 **Shahid Howe, 13**

 **District 11 Male**

* * *

I ace edible plants for the fifth time, and glance nervously over my shoulder. The girl from District 3 wouldn't talk to me when I tried to get her attention, and the boy is...busy. Busy with the pretty girl from District 6. I wonder if he's oblivious to what she's doing or just doesn't care.

Either way, I'm not about to walk up and interrupt, but there are so many questions I want to ask! Maybe he invented things in District 3, the way I dream of building machines for District 11. Maybe he could teach me something. It would be the first positive thing to come out of the Games. But what if he doesn't want to talk to me? What if he's mean, and doesn't like District 11 kids? What if he wants to _kill_ me?

I can't talk to him. I'm just not ready. Maybe I'll try tomorrow, when he and the District 6 girl aren't together.

"Hey, if your not using that we'd like to," says a voice behind me.

I scoot out of the way and see Ricotta with the girl from Twelve. The start working on the plants quiz, laughing as Ricotta drags a bright berry that's well known as being poisonous onto the square signifying 'safe'. As the Twelve girl laughingly explains just how disastrous eating it would be, complete with exaggerated choking sounds, I get up and move on.

Phoenix from Seven is demolishing a dummy, and I sat and staring as he slices it down the front and kicks it viciously in the slice, the hacks into its chest and head. It's as though he's lusting for blood, wishing that that dummy could kick and scream and bleed.

I feel sick. Him, and the careers...even Capri looks better than me.

What place is there for a boy from District 11 that likes to invent things? I'll ask Chaff tonight, but I doubt he knows.

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

My arms throb as the trainer wrestles me to the ground for the third time in five minutes, pinning me for three seconds before letting me up. The District 4 boy was using the hand-to-hand station for most of the day, and now that he's finally gone I'm failing miserably.

"You have to use your weight to your advantage, Hunter," he says. "We already know you're not going to be fast, so don't try to be fast. Try to pull me over, or push me."

I get in a ready stance, and we crash together yet again. This time I throw myself at his neck and hang on, pulling him into a forward slump and dragging him to the ground. I hold him down for three seconds, and get up, exulting. The trainer is grinning and rubbing his neck.

"Good," he says. "Now, I've got to help these two young gentleman before we run out of time, but you're definitely improving." He gives me an encouraging smile before turning to Leon and Byron, the boys from Nine and Ten.

I walk over to a corner and pull off my tight green training shoes, rubbing my sore feet. I'm not used to walking around or exercising so much in one day, and I can feel it in my sore muscles.

Despite what the trainer said, I know that my overall performance has been dismal. I'm overweight and slow. What can I learn? Plus, I don't know anything about plants or traps or climbing.

I'm glad I volunteered for Meldin. His family needed him.

I finger the earring my mother gave me during my goodbyes. It is smooth and cool in my big fingers and I close my eyes, leaning back against the wall. I don't think I'll be coming home, mom.

I'm sorry.

* * *

 _ **First impressions of training?**_

 _ **Anybody you'd really like to see next chapter?**_

 _ **Did your opinion of any of the tributes change?**_

 _ **What would your weapon of choice be?**_

 **Have a good day\night, and leave a nice long review!**


	24. Snobs and Skills - Training Day 2

**Day two has finally arrived. I hope you all enjoy seeing more of the tributes interacting together. Also, if you are a submitter who wants their tribute in an alliance, leave your tribute's name and the name of the tribute(s) you want him\her to ally with in your review. Just because you want it doesn't mean I'll write it, but I do want to hear from you, and will definitely consider your ideas\wishes. Espescially if if I'm stuck.**

 **Also, updates from now until July will probably be more infrequent. I hate to admit it, but this SYOT has been sucking away WAY too much of my time. I need to spend time with my family, and put more effort into my schoolwork. This has been a pleasant distraction, but a distraction none the less. I hope you all understand and won't be offended by the infrequency of both reviews to your stories and updates to this. This story WILL FINISH! I PROMISE! There's just some other stuff that needs to come** **first.**

 **Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Willi Dye, 12**

 **District 3 Female**

* * *

I wake up feeling stiff and sore. The bows and arrows in the Capitol have extremely tight strings and are hard to pull back. Even though they had all sorts of devices for protecting my hands from the string, I managed to smack myself in the forearm with the bowstring when I fired. Sitting up, I survey the spot ruefully. There was a big pink welt there yesterday, and now it's turned into a bruise. A big nasty bluish one!

Rubbing the sore spot, I slide my legs over the edge of the bed, pulling on a pair of lavender slippers sitting on the rug. The movement aggravates my sore shoulders, and I wince again, making a mental note to find a bow that doesn't hurt my arms like that when I shoot today.

Still wearing my silk pajamas, I move toward the doorknob. Then I realize that I haven't done anything to freshen up, and probably look a fright. Sure enough, the bathroom mirror reveals that my hair is frizzy and wild, and my face has a red streak on it from resting my head on my hand. I get a washcloth wet and scrub my face, then place my hand on the button by the shower that is the Capitol version of a hairbrush. A tingle of electricity runs through me, and my hair falls smooth.

Rummaging through a drawer, I find a pale pink scrunchy that matches the pink accents on my training uniform, and pull my hair back with it. Satisfied that I look vaguely presentable, I head for the dining room.

Something smells delicious.

There are steaming bowls of oatmeal on the table, sliced fruit lying across the top. As I sit down, a servant fills my glass with juice. Apple, I think, taking a sip.

"Good morning, sis," Patrick greets me.

I roll my eyes. "Don't call me that. I'm not two any more."

He laughs, a little tightly. "How was training yesterday? I didn't get a chance to ask you last night; you went to shower."

"It was amazing!" I say. "They had so many different kinds of bows. There were wooden ones, metal ones, even _plastic_ ones, believe it or not. The only problem was their strings were too tight. My shoulders are all sore. Y'know, maybe you could talk to the trainers about that? Let them know that I need a looser one?" I stare at my brother, expecting him to heartily agree. But it's Solder who responds.

"Actually," she says hesitantly. "I was going to talk to you about that. A bow might not be your best weapon. For a bow and arrow to be effective, it has to have a heavy enough draw weight to send the arrow into a live target. As you said, you aren't quite strong enough to handle the heavy ones yet."

"I'm fine," I say, annoyed. Why is _Solder_ coaching me? Sure she's the female mentor, but my brother's known me my whole life. What does _she_ know about me?

"Maybe," Solder says. "But I'd like you to work on improvising weapons. Whether you can handle the bow or not, you're much too small to be going into the bloodbath. It is not a place for ranged weapons, and there's no way you're facing down a career once they get inside your range. I want you to know how to make a bow or a spear using natural materials, and only try to get a knife in the cornucopia. Then get out fast. You'll be able to make yourself a decent bow and defend yourself while we gather sponsors for a better one."

"No!" I snap. "That's ridiculous! If I leave the bloodbath without adequate weaponry, I won't get any kills, and without kills, no one will sponsor me. Tell her, Patrick! Why is she mentoring me anyway?"

"We can switch if she wants."

It's Danny, my district partner. He's quiet and I think is a wimp. After all, he only worked on traps yesterday. Traps for crying out loud! Sooooo impressive...but now he's offering to trade mentors, so maybe he's not _all_ bad. Come to think of it, I can probably get just about anything I want from him as long as I keep him thinking I'm little and silly. Inferior minds are vulnerable to superior intellects, after all.

"Okay," I say, before Patrick or Solder can respond. "Deal. We're together now!" I give my brother a fist bump before he can say anything. He sighs and gives a tired smile.

"Alright. But I want you to go get in your training clothes now."

Smiling, I bolt the rest of my breakfast and scamper off to my room. Pulling on the light gray sportpants and coat with pink piping as well as pink tanktop that the prep team has provided for me, I survey my reflection one last time. Regretfully, I think of how I could look should my prep team go at me with the makeup again. I look like plain old boring Willi, not the flashy fairy lightning bolt that I was at the parade.

Patrick makes me walk with him to the elevator, Solder and Danny having already left. I guess Danny didn't feel like he had to take a few extra minutes to look nice. Well, he succeeded. He looked plain and dumb in gray and light blue. Who cares that it brought out his eyes? He'll _never_ be as glamorous as me.

"Willi," Patrick says, and I become aware that he's been trying to get my attention for some time now.

"What?" I ask irritably.

"What Solder said. She's right. You need to stay away from the bloodbath, or they'll go right for you as easy prey. To be weeded out before the real fun begins. Get a knife and run. We'll take care of you from there. With that in mind, I want you to work on edible plants and shelters today."

"No," I say. "Without a bow and arrow, I'll be a total failure. Edible plants won't help me anyway."

For a moment, I think I see fear in his eyes. Silly. Ever since his own games he's been much too flighty and protective.

He sighs. "Alright, Willi, here's a compromise. I want you to work on improvising weapons. Learn, at least, how to _make_ a bow and arrow. You say that without a bow and arrow you're dead? Well, they don't always have bows at the cornucopia."

I roll my eyes, but I have to admit that his words make sense. I board the elevator and speed downward, arriving just as the morning's training sessions begin. The tributes are already fanning out to the different stations, and reluctantly I follow Patrick's advice and head over to improvised weapons. The girl from District 6 beats me to it, and looks up as I sit down next to her. The trainer is helping her tie a sharp knife to the tip of a stick, showing her how to soak some sort of woody strips in water so that they're supple enough to tie with. She's watching intently, copying the trainer's every move. Soon, I am tapping my foot with impatience. The trainers aren't supposed to focus on just one person at a time! They're supposed to help everybody!

"How do I make a bow?" I ask loudly, making sure to get the trainer's attention. She looks up, frowning. For a moment I think she's about to tell me to wait my turn, but then she rises.

"Keep working on it Venna, you're doing quite well," she says, before coming to me.

"A bow, huh?" she asks, sizing me up.

"Yes," I nod emphatically.

She raises her eyebrows, but takes a stick and passes it to me.

"If you're going to make a bow, you need to know first off that it will be nothing like the factory-made ones they have in the bow station. It will have a very low drawweight, and probably won't be good for much more than small game. Then again, the other tributes don't have to know that, and seeing someone carrying a bow is pretty intimidating."

"Well, the other tributes know it now," I hiss, seeing Venna looking at us curiously. "Talk more quietly!"

She purses her lips, but continues: "You can use normal string from the cornucopia, but I'm guessing at your age you aren't planning to go into the bloodbath. In that case, you'll need to know how to _make_ a string."

I'm seething. Of _course_ I'll be going into the bloodbath! I'm trained! I'm practically a career!

Deciding to humor her, I sit obediently down next to Venna and the trainer hands me some of the strips Venna is working with. She begins to explain that they come from a cedar tree, and shows me some leaves to show what they look like, and something about soaking them in water...I grab the strips and start trying to twist them together, but nothing works. Venna leans over and begins twisting them together.

"You have to make it tight," she says. "If your twists are loose, the whole string will unravel. Try this."

She puts her hands over mine and continues on the string.

Angrily, I stand up, and she falls back as I nearly knock her over. Furiously, I throw the string on the ground. "You're not the trainer," I shout. "I'll thank you to mind your own business!"

I stomp away, knowing all the other tributes are staring. Ignoring their nervous, questioning, and mocking glances, I stalk over to the bows and arrows. Let Patrick yell at me. The other tributes are all jerks, and no amount of stupid _string_ is going to save me in the arena. I refuse to run from a fight. He can seethe all he wants. My strategy is set in stone.

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

I pause to wipe the sweat from my brow, when a sudden shouting takes my attention. Turning from the trainer I was battling but a moment before, I turn and watch with raised eyebrows as the girl from District 3 shouts at the girl from Six. She watches as incredulously of the rest of us, waving her partner over to come join her, and continues working on the string she was twisting.

Turning my attention from them, my eyes follow the girl from Three as she moves to the bow and arrow station, every inch of her radiating fury. She's a strange one, that's for sure. Spent all day at the bow and arrow section yesterday. And she's not even that good.

I hear a step behind me, and turn to see Eleanor from District 2, or Ellie as she has told us to call her. She's a volunteer, and will likely be in the career pack this year. Then again, there's always the wild cards who think they have a better chance flying solo. Either way, I want her on my team if she'll have it. She seems to have more skills than just weapons, and that could prove very valuable indeed. "Hello," I say, my tone neutral.

"Hi," she says with a small smile.

Her voice is somewhat flat, like her grey-blue eyes.

"Nice work with that arakh."

My eyebrows shoot up. I hadn't expected any of the other tributes to know what it was called. An arakh is not a common weapon at all. Somewhere between a sword and a scythe, it is both elegant and brutal. My grandfather used one, and passed it down to me after he died. It is in his honor, and Hazel's, that I will win the Games.

Thinking of Hazel, I fight the urge to cringe, remembering my ridiculous behavior on the train. I suppose I was just stressed, but it was still unacceptable. I may have alienated Cyma permanently with my premature flirting, not to mention dishonored my girl back home. Only hours before in her goodbyes I had pledged my faithfulness...

I shudder. Rectifying my mistake starts now. So I accept Ellie's compliment as best I can, trying to remember to remain humble. I want these people to trust me. Our alliance may be one of necessity, but it can also be pleasant. "Thank you," I say. "You're excellent with a bow. Probably you're better than me, at least in terms of skill value. I mean, how many times have you seen an arakh in the cornucopia?"

"Never," she concedes. "But you seem like you'd be handy with a sword."

"Well, I'm not too bad," I say with a laugh. "Still, though, that's what comes of honoring a legacy. Sometimes you're not that legacy's number one fan."

"True. I'm fighting for the reputation of District 2's females and all women. I know that more girls can win the Games. Though goodness knows some of our girls have been awfully pig-headed." She blushes, looking for a moment as if she thinks she's said too much.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "Just make sure you give the gentleman their credit too. We boys aren't all bad, you know."

She laughs uneasily. "You and your grandfather's sword - I mean arakh - and me and my biases. Hmph."

Pessimism. There seems to be a lot of that in this girl. Or maybe cynicism. I'm not sure. Either way, she appears to be insecure. That's something I could use in the arena...

Something in me rebels at the thought. These Games are an honorable trial of strength, not a contest in manipulation and lying. Then again, they've been won that way before. I feel a vague flicker of unease. There's going to be more than just sword swinging and camping out once I enter the arena.

Stealing a glance at Cyma I see that she is bathed in sweat, pushing damp hair back from her face and re-braiding it. She's one of the manipulative ones. I made a big mistake alienating her on that train. We have to have some form of mutual trust to survive. After all, if my own district partner won't trust me, who will?

Hazel, I remind myself. Hazel trusts me. I have to get home to her.

That will require not getting on the receiving end of Cyma's excellent knife skills.

I have some work to do over the next two days. A reputation to restore. Immediately, I feel a thrill of excitement. Enzo Garrix has never backed down from a challenge before, and I don't intend to make the Games my first time.

I will use this set back as an opportunity to thrive.

Giving Eleanor a gracious nod, I return to sparring with the trainer.

* * *

 **Cotton Ombre, 12**

 **District 8 Male**

* * *

I'd hoped to work in the camouflage station today. I've something of a knack for patterns and and shadows, and attempting to learn couldn't possibly hurt. After all, everyone knows that if I survive these Games, it won't be through skill with weapons. It'll be brains, hiding, and a whole lot of luck.

I wonder if Eleanor will be the one to kill me.

She was chatting with the District 4 boy a few minutes ago, but then just as I was going over to this station, she came over to it. She's been here for at least a half hour now, and she's quite good. I've never seen a career excel at camouflage, and despite my annoyance at her jumping in before I could, watching her is a treat. She's painting her arm to look like a forest floor. I've never seen a real forest, unless you count the gray haze in the distance that I can see through the fence, and I don't. There are hardly any trees in our district, and the ones that are there are small, no bigger than some of the potted plants in my room on Floor 8.

Eleanor swirls brown and orange paint down her forearm, carefully covering it in a layer of multicolored clays. Then she sticks leaves and twigs on the back of her hand and arm, balling her hand into a fist to hide the bare flesh of her fingers. The trainer praises her, and she gives a small smile, thanking him graciously for his help.

"I think I'd better go wash off now," she says almost ruefully, giving her arm a sniff. "This sure doesn't smells so great."

The trainer laughs, and she heads away. Finally!

Shyly, I step forward, and the man notices me for the first time. "Hello young man, what can I help you with?" he asks gently.

"I was hoping you could help me learn," I say. "To blend in. Hiding's probably the only thing I'm good at. Besides, this looks fun."

Fear threatens to choke me as he nods for me to sit down, and begins explaining the principles of coloring and light, and the differences they make, and how to detect and match them. I have to force myself to listen to his voice. Hiding can only do so much to help me, and yet by my own admission it is my only skill. The thought frightens, me, and I shiver. The room suddenly feels dark and cold, despite the bright fluorescent lighting.

When a voice speaks behind me, I start, knocking over a container of blue gray die that spatters the trainer and sends him leaping back with a yelp.

The girl behind me seems equally startled. Her dark eyes widen and she scuttles a few steps back. I recognize her as Zita, the girl from Five. She's the one that fought with the career girl the other day, and then wouldn't come back down for training. She is short, and very pretty, and I wonder whether her spunk yesterday came from actual bravery or simply too much emotion. I'm inclined to go with the latter.

"Hi," I say.

"Hello," she answers, guarded and a little breathless. "Do you mind if I join you?"

She seems so timid, and I see myself. It never would have entered my mind to turn her away, but I say yes easily.

With a relieved sigh she plants herself on the floor beside the trainer and I listening eagerly as he re-explains what he told me a moment ago. I'm glad for the refresher, since I wasn't really listening the first time.

First we try the forest pattern that Eleanor was using earlier, coating our arms in a slimy paste and then sticking mud and paints and leaves over the top. The trainer says this will work well in a deciduous forest, though I'm not sure what that is.

Zita's good, very good.

Trying on her own, she coats her arm in green and sticks grass over it, painting it with splashes of pink and sticking on moss, along with a few small flowers. It looks absolutely beautiful, like a sun-dappled garden. Mother kept a window-box in our tenement room, and the violas she grew were some of the most beautiful things I ever saw.

Copying Zita's pattern, I try one with white daisies. She laughs when I make one much too big, and then paints rainbow on her arm. I laugh in return.

"You can't lie on top of a _rainbow._ Paint yourself like a tree, or a rock!"

"Who says I can't?" she retorts. "have you spoken to the game makers lately? What information lets you know the arena won't _be_ a giant rainbow?"

I have to agree, she has a valid point. There have been some very weird things in Games before.

Swiftly, her face flickers to an expression of sadness. Her hand swirls in the blue paint spilled on the floor as she paints a flower. I recognize it as a forget-me-not. They grow along the side of the road by one of the factories, and it's always a miracle that they survive.

I blush painfully, remembering when I tried to give a bouquet of them to a very pretty little girl in my class. They wilted in my pocket, and when I pulled them triumphantly out they were less than attractive.

Perhaps they make Zita remember something too.

She makes the flower larger, adding splashes of pink and white to the center, and with surprise, I notice that there are tears in her eyes.

"It's beautiful," I say.

She sniffs, then smiles. "Yes, it's very pretty."

There's a note of longing in her voice though, and I wonder what the flowers mean to her.

"Was there someone special?" I ask, using the teasing voice I use on my brother Ty when he comes home mooning about a girl. I'm hoping to cheer her up.

"No," she says. "Not like that. But I miss my family. My little brother Carlos, my sister Bess, my mamà and papà."

"I miss my family too," I say. "Ty, and Paisley, and my parents. There were lots of kids in our district that didn't even have a mother and father. But I was happy. And now this...in some ways, it would be easier if I'd never been happy at all. Then I wouldn't no how bad sad feels."

"You shouldn't say that," Zita sighs. "I - wanted to get married, and have a family of my own. Now, that will never happen. But I'm glad I had a family who loved me. Perhaps it will help me be brave..."

Her voice sounds utterly unconvinced.

I notice that the camouflage instructor is watching us, and his face almost looks as if he is in pain. Perhaps he is feeling the loss of our lives, and he _should_ be. He is a part of the Capitol's killing machine, even if he doesn't want to be.

Grabbing some green paint, I add a stem and other flowers to Zita's forget-me-not. Then I grab a canister of purple and yellow and paint one of the violas my mother used to grow. I tell Zita about the window box.

In turn, she takes a cup of pink paint and makes a beautiful blushing rose. Her cheeks are a similar shade of pink, and she tells me that Dare, a candle-makers son in her district, gave one like it to her when she went to buy some honey for her mother's baking.

I paint a tall daisy, that looks like a sun shining down on our other flowers. A tear runs down my cheek and lands on the flower, blurring it a little. Zita gives my hand a squeeze, and suddenly I feel like I have a big sister going in with me. I don't want her to die. I so desperately want her to go home to her merchant boys. maybe the handsome beekeeper's son, who gave her the rose.

But at the same time, I am buoyed up. The pain of Pixie's abandonment of me - after she sang to me on the train and I thought we could be friends, only to leave me in training - stings less. Someone is here for me, and now, neither of us are alone. The tendril of hope presented is thin, like the curling green tips around the morning glory Zita is painting now, but I will hold on to it with all my strength.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

The bell signaling lunch rings sharply out, and I hurry to get in line. I spent the morning on the obstacle course, and I am hungrier than a buck goat, and let me tell you they can really pack it in.

I find myself behind the boy from Six, and after heaping my plate with rich stew poured over thick creamy mashed potatoes, I follow him to the tables.

"Is this spot taken?" I ask, pointing to the seat next to him.

He shakes his head, and I sit down.

"How was wrestling?"

I saw him earlier this morning battling a trainer, and he seemed good. I'm not bad either.

"It was fine," he says, somewhat shortly. Something seems to be bothering him.

"You're good." I say. "Did you do it before you entered the Games? I saw that you volunteered."

"Look," he says, and now he almost sounds like he's going to cry. "I didn't volunteer because I wanted to. I volunteered to save my friend. His family would have starved without him. My wouldn't. So I took his place. I don't want to talk about it. If you're looking for somebody to flatter, go sit with the careers."

He picks up his plate and stands up as if planning to move, but I put a hand on his arm. "I didn't mean to upset you. Sorry if I approached that wrong, I'm not great with words. If you volunteered to save a friend, that's the most wonderful thing a person can ever do and I wish I was as brave as you. Perhaps I never will be, but all the same, would you take me as an ally?"

There. I said it. I'd been thinking about asking him since I saw him in training. I could tell that we have similar fighting styles and skills, and now I know we share morality as well. Definitely not a Games-winning combination, but one that might make our deaths bearable, and let us give the others a run for their money.

"Why would you want me as an ally?" he questions suspiciously. "You still seem like you're trying to flatter something out of me."

"No, that's not how I operate," I tell him earnestly. "When I say something, I mean it, and you can count on it."

Perhaps something in my voice convinces him I'm telling the truth, because his face softens. "We'll plan on being allies then. Do you have a particular strategy?"

Victory! I almost want to shout it. Getting him to trust me was the crucial first step. Now we can work on plans for staying alive. It appears he's looking to me to lead, and while that's a massive responsibility that I'm not sure I want, I'm pretty sure that I'll feel better than I would following.

"In the bloodbath, we have to make use of our sixty seconds to figure out where we are. Usually the cornucopia is in the middle of a clearing of some sort. Before the bell, I'll point in the direction opposite the way I want us to run. That way, anyone watching will be expecting us to go the opposite of where we actually do. When the gong rings, we run in and get supplies. We both cover the other, and if we're separated, we meet where we didn't point at the beginning. If one of us is hurt, it's up to the other to decide what they want to do. Either way, if humanly possible we meet up after the bloodbath, get a safe distance away, and if we're hurt fix it up. If we're killed...well, I guess we'll just have to walk it off."

He smiles grimly. "You're very funny"

"Yes, how else would I survive?" I say tiredly. When I was back in my district trying to be a leader, I wanted to help people smile. Not help them win a deathmatch. I think Hunter can see this, and I think it's why he decided to trust me. We both know the other is already prepared to die in there, but we're prepared to do it as a team.

"Following you're sparkling sense of humor, here's a team motto," Hunter suggests. "You get hurt, walk it off; you get killed, walk it off; but whatever you do, you do as a team."

I offer my hand, and he shakes it.

"I like it," I say.

* * *

 **Leon Rayner, 17**

 **District 9 Male**

* * *

After lunch finishes, I head over to learn to make a quarterstaff. I spent the morning learning to fight with one, and now I guess I better know how to get my hands on one.

Turns out, it's relatively simple. You find a long, straight sapling, preferably with heavy wood. Then you strip the branches off it, peel it smooth so it won't hurt your hand, and bravo, you have a potentially lethal weapon.

My mentor was the one who suggested I use a quarterstaff. Cane noticed my strong build, and told me to eat lots and learn a bludgeoning weapon. So that's what I've done. It isn't the most taxing of strategies: eat a lot, and do a bit of fighting.

At night, I watch recaps of Games where people used bludgeon weapons, and try to learn the strategy involved with fighting that way. Ambush or attacking someone while they're sleeping are pretty much the only effective offensive measures. Other than that, it's all defense. A few kids I watch in the recaps ended up fighting careers with quarterstaffs. One lost her weapon and was butchered. Another had the luck to die quickly. The third won his battle, but died painfully of ghastly wounds not long after.

After I watched those, I flicked the television off and tried to focus on the strategies employed rather than the gore involved.

The one kid that actually killed someone with a quarterstaff left their victim so smashed he was nearly unrecognizable. I know I'll do serious damage with a bludgeoning weapon. If I got my hands on an axe...

That would just be scary.

Now, as I spar with a trainer using my hand-made weapon, I find myself gritting my teeth and moving like a wild thing. The cracks of our staffs echo through the training center. Finally, I disarm my partner with a rapid hit alongside the knee and then a powerful jab in the ribs. He winces and falls hard on his backside, and I'm certain that had we not been wearing protective gear he would have a broken rib.

Twirling my staff in the air, I feel a rush of power.

Perhaps I will be a competitor. For I _will_ live!

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

Sighing in contentment, I raise a bottle of icy cold water to my lips. As the refreshing liquid cools my parched throat, I sit down with my back up against a heavy rack of lethal throwing axes. My shoulder burns from sparring earlier with a trainer, not with one of the throwing axes, but a large one used for lumberjack work. The axe is an intimidating weapon, and I already have plenty of experience. The trainer had to help me get used to the idea of an axe as a weapon rather than a tool, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.

Now, the trainer, a woman named Darra, is occupied with the girl from District 10. Ricotta, I believe is her name. Like the cheese.

She's clumsy, and hasn't the right body-type for the axe. Maybe her weight would be an advantage if it was muscle, meaning she could use a large battle-ax, but she's barely strong enough to hold one of the smallest ones. Almost a hatchet, really. With reach that small, you have to be fast, and Ricotta isn't.

Getting bored, I screw the cap back onto my water bottle and look around the rest of the training center. Seeing that edible plants is empty, I move over and begin learning about jungle plants. I'm already very familiar with my own northwestern fauna, but in other ecosystems I have no idea what I'm doing.

I'm identifying mangoes and papayas, and learning that often if other animals are eating something it is safe for people, though this isn't a hard and fast rule, when I hear a voice behind me.

"So if I dip these stakes as much filth as I can find, and then put them at the bottom of a pit trap, any tribute that falls on them will die of infection, even if I'm not around to check the trap?"

It's Phoenix. He's at it again, asking about the most sadistic, painful, and horrific means of killing people. Abruptly, I get up and leave the station, forgetting to excuse myself from the trainer, and proceed to get as far away from my awful partner and his traps training. But he turns and looks at me, and as I march off I can feel his stare burning into my back.

Desperate to take my mind off the current situation, I run to the obstacle course, watching as the District 11 tributes finish. The girl is good, but I hardly notice. I leap into action, the ropes and ladders and monkey bars pulling me into a frenzy of physical activity that helps me forget my fear.

Survive. That is my objective. And I dedicate myself to it, rather than my fear.

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

Mercury, Mercury, foolish Mercury.

I swear all he's done in training is flirt and show off. He's juggling knives now.

I roll my eyes and go back to helping Atalanta. She asked me if I'd help her learn to use a sword, and it's been fun. We're not actually aloud to spar with one another, but I show her how to take down a dummy as viciously as possible.

She's a natural, and while practice and dedication have made her much better with spears, her sword fighting is graceful and shows much raw talent. I'm going to have to watch out carefully for her in the arena. She's got skills an grit.

Whirling her blade one lsat time, she collapses laughing beside me, her eyes alight and her black hair clinging to her face with sweat. the purple streak in her hair that was here when she volunteered has been re-dyed since her arrival in the Capitol, and it flares out boldly.

She still seems very guarded, though, when it comes to me. It worries me greatly. The career pack has to maintain order, and if she knows ho much I really hate her that order will not last long. Tensions are bad enough between a bunch of competitive teenagers, but competitive teenagers facing life-or-deth stakes, not enough to eat, and worst of all not enough sleep don't take much to erupt into a volcano.

When it comes to Atalanta, she doesn't trust me and I outright hate her. She can't know that.

But I can hardly stop the revulsion I feel having her sit next to me.

All fine, I suppose. She can be happy until we go at it and I kill her as the set piece of the Games...in fact, if she trusts me, it'll be even more spectacular.

The pretend crush strategy has already failed, but sword-fighting buddies seems to be working. I'll keep it up.

Until my time to shine is her time to die.

* * *

 _ **Who had the coolest POV?**_

 _ **What do you think of the alliance forged this chapter?**_

 _ **Who is the bravest tribute?**_

 _ **The sweetest?**_

 _ **The smartest?**_

 _ **Your favorite?**_


	25. Allies and Enemies - Training Day 3

**Training Day Three! Please enjoy and go vote in the poll!**

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

Sea foam blue.

That's the color of my room, the color of my clothes, the color of the waves that haunt me at night...believe me, I am becoming heartily sick of the color. District 4 is by the sea, yes, but I'm nearly positive that everyone is tired of seeing our tributes dressed in blue. I know _I_ am.

Sighing ruefully, I straighten my sea foam blue training shirt as the doors of the elevator slide open, releasing me for a third day of training. My stomach flip flops nervously; private sessions are only one day away. But it isn't about getting a good score, it's about being ready for the Games, and I know I am. If I'm ready, the good score will follow. So far, knives has been my forte. I've thrown knives, sparred hand to hand with knives, carved up dummies with knives. They are the most versatile weapon there is, and that's why I use them.

Occasionally, I remember, the game makers haven't put any knives in the cornucopia. So many tributes use them, especially the trained careers, that it shakes things up, usually drawing the games out longer. No matter.

Knives are relatively cheap. If I do well in my interview, I'll be sponsored and get some that way. The thought sends another jolt of nervousness through me as I make my way to the knife station for the third day in a row. The interviews will be my biggest challenge. Good looks and flashy skills won't get me a win. A final eight, but not a win. The Capitol will be seeing the victor over and over again, year after year, and the game makers will make sure that whoever wins is someone they can squeeze a good show out of for the rest of their life. Which is why making a strong impression is so important.

My mentor has already decided we're going for sexy and sweet, a choice I approve of. I could never pull off just plain sexy, with my girlish face and big eyes, but a sort of sweetness and innocence will come naturally, and will stand out in a career. It shouldn't hurt me unless I get a bad training score...and now I'm going in circles, worrying about the private sessions again.

I take a heavy triangular knife with a lethal looking blade and silver handle, and taking it by the blade, whip it forward an into the target. I pull another from the rack and send it flying after the first. After a few casts, my breathing slows and my years of practice kick in. Effortlessly, I send knife after knife into the wood. Not all are bulls eyes, but I don't miss the target once, and all the knives stick.

With the knife throwing calming me down, I allow myself to start thinking about the Games again. The career pack seems promising this year. Both Mercury and Caspar unnerve me a little, and after our falling out on the train I am leery of Enzo, but the girls seem good. For a moment, I think about how Enzo has gone out of his way to be chivalrous during training. Perhaps I have judged him too harshly. Perhaps I'm simply angry with myself for thinking he was handsome at the Reaping. I don't know.

Either way, the majority of my allies seem trustworthy. Once I split, I can camouflage myself and disappear and let whoever else survives the breakup do my hunting for me. Then I'll have only to face one potentially wounded opponent in the final battle.

Camouflage is the skill that sets me apart from my peers. Sure, Eleanor's not bad, but never is a career so capable as I. I who dislike the blazing sun on the water and preferred instead to roam the meager forests that edge the district. I know how forests look.

And even if the arena isn't a forest, every District 4 knows sand and water. How many possibilities can there be?

I am ready for whatever the game makers decide to throw at me.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

Leaning back against a rack of knives, I watch Cyma as she sends weapon after weapon sailing into the target. Perhaps she _can_ throw, but she'd never be strong enough to face me in a hand to hand knife fight. So that's the key with her once tensions flare: stay inside her range. It's the same for Atalanta, and Eleanor, and most of the outer district girls with one exception. They can't match me in body weight, and as long as I'm on my toes they can't pick me off from a distance. Simple.

I hear a thud, and turn lazily in the direction of the sound. The one exception to my rule stands there, methodically drumming an axe into a dummy. Emmett, the girl from Seven, is decently well muscled and somewhat tall, for an outer district girl. Plus, she's lethal with an axe. Axes are heavy. I won't be able to fight them with knives, that's for sure. So, she mustn't get an axe. That's one of my notes to self: guard all axes at the cornucopia.

Besides Emmett, I've spent time watching a number of the tributes. It pays to know your enemy. I'm already prepared in terms of weapons skill, and rather than just sitting and staring, I'm putting my time to use.

The threats: All the careers, obviously, though my partner isn't as large a threat as most Two girls. The boy from Three seems resourceful. Both from Seven. The boy from Nine, Leon, knows his way around blunt weapons. He could be dangerous. The girl from Twelve seems like she has a head on her shoulders and that means I'll probably be seeing her after the bloodbath, but smarts only go so far in the arena.

The non-threats? The girl from Three. She's obviously arrogant and seems too fragile physically to survive long. Both from Five. They're whiners. Both from Six, the boy's heavy and slow and the girl's just another pretty face. The boy from Eight is too young, and the girl overthinks things, I can just tell. Plus, she's ridiculously skinny. The girl from Nine is deaf. The two from Ten, whose names I actually know, are fairly typical. Ricotta's soft outside and Byron's soft inside. The pair from Eleven are tiny. Might survive a while, but as soon as they're in a fight it's over. The boy from Twelve, Liam, seems like he might actually have _some_ skill. I guess I'll upgrade him to minor threat.

My nose itches and I rub it irritably. I catch Atalanta staring at me with a frown on her face that says she thinks I should be training. Who made her the leader? She grabbed the job and everyone else went along. I'm not going to.

The itch refuses to go away, and I hit upon a plan that will tick Atalanta off. I take a slim stiletto knife from the rack, careful to make sure it's one of the blunt ones used for hand to hand, and stick it up my nose, immediately eliminating the itch but pretending to dig it in further. Atalanta looks disgusted and I withdraw the blade, pretending to flick something off the edge as though I'd been picking my nose with it. She turns away, looking furious and exasperated, and I double over in a fit of silent laughter.

I sigh a moment later, realizing that I really should follow her unspoken advice.

Picking up the slim knife from where it fell, I throw it at a dummy, then curse under my breath as it hits handle-first and bounces off the target.

Grabbing a pair of daggers, I move over to hand to hand and lose myself in the whirl of fighting a trainer.

My feet move in a rapid dance of death and adrenaline courses through me. Training makes my motions smooth and automatic, and my breath comes faster. If mock combat is this fun, I cannot wait for the thrill of a real duel to the death.

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

Laughing sheepishly, I replace the sword I'd been using a moment before in its rack, nodding to the criticisms of the trainer I battled a moment before. I've definitely improved since the first day. Perhaps I'd even go so far as to say that the odds are beginning to tilt in my favor. But I still have a lot to learn, and Calla, the woman in charge of sword work, thinks so too.

"You need to work on your footwork, Alabaster," she says. "You're stance is nice, but if you get too excited and sacrifice correctness for speed, your form will fall apart and you'll leave yourself open to attacks from a more collected opponent. Battle is exhilarating, but you need to be able to keep your head in the game."

"I know," I say. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize, you're really doing great. Especially for the amount of time you've had to practice. But remember, you're going to be going up against kids who have fought so long that the sword is a natural extension of their arm. They will be _natural_ fighters, and even great can't beat natural. If your talents are forced, eventually you'll make a mistake. One opening is all a career needs to end it."

I nod again, swallowing at the thought of dropping my guard and feeling cold steel slide into my body.

"I'll come back to you after lunch, once I've cooled down a little," I tell Calla as I turn away. She nods once, and I head towards the lunch tables.

Perfect timing. The bell rings a second before I reach the steaming buffet standing in one corner of the room. Heaping my plate with a sweet concoction of cinnamon, sugar, and stewed apples, all inside of small rolls of flaky pastry crust, I fill a glass with ice-cold water and head for a table. As I dig in, voices catch my ear. It's the girl from Eleven and the boy from Eight, Capri and Cotton I think their names are.

"What are your plans for the Games, Cotton?" Capri asks gently, sliding into the neighboring table. Cotton sits down next to her and I rase my head slightly, straining to hear.

He hesitates, and Capri gets right to the point. "If you don't know, that's all right. I've got some ideas, but they all involve an ally. Would you team up with me? We could watch each others backs and get supplies."

Cotton looks white and frightened at the very mention of the bloodbath, but he just nods, a shy smile spreading over his face. Capri extends a small brown hand and he shakes it, looking more decisive.

"That's settled then," she says brightly, and they begin exchanging small talk about strategy and their lives before the games.

I stop listening, but the conversation has reminded me of a pressing need of my own: allies. By myself, I will have to brave near-certain death braving the bloodbath without someone to watch my back, or skip the bloodbath and risk slow starvation from a lack of supplies. I know the girl from Seven is looking for an ally; she asked and was rejected by Pixie yesterday afternoon. She's too dangerous though. I want an ally I feel is somewhat transparent and easy to understand, but Emmett seems like a planner. Maybe she wouldn't stab me in the back, but if she decided to I don't think I'd see it coming.

The boys from Six and Ten are in an alliance, and seem like they'd let me join, but I honestly think that past the bloodbath those two would be a liability. Leon of District 9 is an ideal candidate. He's tall and strong and somewhat skilled with that quarterstaff of his, but he's also easy to read and seems like he thinks fairly simply. I feel certain that I'm observant and a good enough actress to get through an alliance with him safely.

Leon it is then. He's sitting alone, and so I pick up my tray and my half finished water and slide down next to him. "You looking for an ally?" I say, taking the direct approach. the more direct I am, the less he'll expect me to turn manipulative later on.

"Maybe," he says neutrally, stirring a cup of some sort of juice.

"Me too," I say. "It wouldn't necessarily have to be permanent. Just past the bloodbath, and then after that we could split if we wanted to."

"I'll think about it," he says. "For now I'm leaning toward a yes, but I should consult my mentor."

"Good idea!" I say, acting as though I never thought of it. "I feel so mud safer now!" Maybe that's laying it on thick, but Leon doesn't seem to notice. He just goes back to his lunch as I chug the last of my water, crunching on the ice, and toss my dishes into a trash can.

That's settled then. He'll say yes, I saw the relief in his face when I asked.

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

Tired after a morning of spears and looking for a change, I decide to work on my sword skills. Byron from Ten is already practicing, and he doesn't seem bad. At least he's not clumsy, like the girl from Ten and her axes.

Caspar offered to teach me to use a sword. He's good I suppose, but I couldn't shake a nagging feeling that he wasn't being sincere. I'm probably just being paranoid, but the fact that he has a distinctly unsavory reputation back home doesn't make me want to trust him. At the Reapings, I was ready to kill him at the least provocation. Killing your district partner isn't considered cool though, and I'm reining it in. Still, he rubs me completely the wrong way.

Doesn't mean I'm not going to let those sword skills he taught me go to waste!

As I spar with a trainer, I find it nearly impossible to concentrate and am constantly being disarmed. Caspar is over on the archery range, and I can practically feel him staring at me.

Plus, that Eleanor from Two is over there as well. I don't know what it is about archer girls, but everybody loves them. I'm way to impatient to learn a bow, and like the physicalness of sword fighting. I'm quick on my feet and I could dodge Ellie's arrows, get inside her range, and kill her. But do any of the game makers or audience members think of that? No. They just see a girl with flashy bow and arrow skills.

She's attractive by Capitol standards as well. Ear and nose piercings. Humph, my purple hair streak doesn't hold a candle. Does it matter that nose rings look freaky? No. The caprices of Capitol fashion declare they are cool, therefore they are cool. Great.

She's outshining me, and it's making me nervous! If she gets a better score, I swear I will not be able to focus once I get in the arena.

 _Don't think like that!_ I reprimand myself harshly. If I've already lost the Games mentally I'll never win for real. This is so bad.

I've got great skills!

Exasperated, I throw my sword on the floor and stalk back to the spear station. Once I settle the javelin in my hand, I relax to the cool touch of the metal, the sense of power and balance. I can use this spear for close or long range.

Picturing the way I want it to arc through the air and bury itself in the bullseye, visualizing my shot carefully, I draw my arm back and release. In the moment of stillness, I can almost hear it arc gracefully through the air.

There is a thud as it buries itself in something solid, and I open my eyes. It isn't in the red circle that is the bullseye, but the yellow ring bordering it. Still! That's amazing! I bet Ellie couldn't make this kind of shot with _her_ eyes closed...

I exult in my moment of superiority, and my competitive edginess wears off.

Being the best calms me down.

Maybe it _does_ make me a target, but heck, I'm a career! It's a risk I'm absolutely willing to take.

* * *

 **Liam Cox, 14**

 **District 12 Male**

* * *

The reality of the Games still hasn't sunk in for me. It's been nearly a week, and I still can't wrap my mind around what has happened! It's that stupid head injury from when I was little...

Maybe it is an asset in this situation, since I'm not scared and I won't freeze up, but I have a sudden desire to be able to experience feelings and emotions normally, even if they are painful sometimes. I don't want to be seen as callous or cold. Again, those attitudes will be assets in the emotionally taxing days to come, but I wish that I could experience life the way others do for once.

That's why I flirted so much back in Twelve. That's also why the girls never stayed. They knew I wasn't sincere, and I knew I couldn't be. But did I know that? What if I really am just making no effort to empathize?

Because when I think about it, I did used to feel sorry for people. I hit my head when I was three, but I must have been eight by the time people started talking about my lack of drama. I remember crying as a five year old when I found a stray kitten, and mother wouldn't let me keep it. She was going to drown it, but I hid it in a basket under my bed and lied to her that I'd given it to a friend.

In my five-year-old brain, all the kitten needed to live was love, so I petted it, and let it sleep with me. It was too weak to leave it's basket, and I interpreted that as it listening to me telling it that mother couldn't see it. When I came back from school, it was dead, and I cried.

I cried too when Alissa, my friend Burke's big sister, was reaped. She was going to get married soon, and I remember the way her fiancé cried when she died in the bloodbath. I cried too, though I didn't understand.

Perhaps I'm just a product of my environment. Jaded by the time I turned nine. If so, that's a tragedy. But is that what happened? I can't tell.

This mental wrestling makes my head ache, and I go and box a trainer to take my mind off my frustration. It helps, and I lose myself in the pounding fists. The girl from Six, Venna, is nearby, learning kicks and punches.

All I seem to be good for is hurting people.

And I can't even feel their pain.

* * *

 **Phoenix Hemlock, 18**

 **District 7 Male**

* * *

Emmett. She's scared of me. I can see it by the way she drops her eye whenever I look at her.

Some of the others are afraid too, and I revel in it. The girl from Eleven, the boy from Eight, the girl from Five...little do they know, but they are actually safe from my anger. Safe from my vengeance and hate.

Easy targets are no fun, and those children are all easy targets. I want Emmett.

Pixie too would be entertaining. I could tear off her pretty little fairy wings, bloody her snub nose, notch those prim slightly pointed ears...the Games will be my haven.

It's safer, in a way, than hunting peacekeepers back in the district. They knew I was out there, and they would have killed me without a second thought. When I was shot in the leg and taken, it was only chance - or bad aim - that that bullet went through my leg instead of my head. In the Games I will be killed, but first I will kill, kill, kill.

There is a scratching noise nearby, and I look down, realizing I've wandered over to the fire station. Emmett squats there, trying to coax a blaze from a small pile of dead grass and twigs, using a flint and steel, hence the scraping.

Good idea. Fire is a wonderful, beautiful thing.

I turn to the trainer and take some materials, moving to the other side of the station and building a roaring blaze. I turn a deaf ear to the compliments I receive on my technique. I hold branches in the fire until they are glowing hot at the tip, then inhale the scent of smoke, and imagine the singe of burning hair. Emmett is staring and I give her my best ruthless grin, laughing softly as she flinches.

In the arena, the Games last until everyone but one is dead. I am a convicted criminal, a murderer, some say sadistic, others mad, and I will not be allowed to win. That much is certain. But I could make it to the final two, and the longer that takes, the longer I get to stay alive.

Somewhere inside of me lurks a terrible fear of death. All those times I watched someones life leave them, I would laugh at their fear. The peacekeepers were always terrified and struggling, the citizens were more peaceful.

I never wanted to kill them! The peacekeepers were bights, curses to the earth, but the citizens were harmless. They would have turned me in for my thieving ways, so I killed them. I don't want to die myself. I would have been executed for the smallest of my stealing. And I will be executed, though through the 'mercy' of the Capitol I get to kill in the process.

A thrill runs through me as the other deaths take my mind off the impending loss of my own.

* * *

 _ **This chapter was mostly featuring the 'antagonist' type characters. Who was your favorite?**_

 _ **Why?**_

 _ **Who was your least favorite?**_

 _ **Why?**_

 ** _Whose strategy in this chapter is your favorite?_**

 ** _Who are you most excited to see in action?_**

 ** _Who do you empathize with?_**

 ** _What would your thoughts be at this point in the journey to the Games?_**

 ** _How are you enjoying the story?_**

 **Note: The tributes that have not been featured so far during training, namely Ricotta, Cristina, and a few others who I can't remember at the moment, will get POVs before the interviews, never fear. Private sessions and interview training is still to come, as well as interviews and launch.**


	26. Feats and Fails - Private Sessions

**Private sessions are here! Vote in the poll if you haven't already!**

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

Private sessions, private sessions, private sessions.

I've spent the morning cramming my head with last minute facts, frantically swinging every weapon I can, and being just generally terrified. I'm hungry and miserable, my stomach having been too tied up to eat. Well, at least Filly will be happy. She's been nagging at me to get fit before the Games, maybe even lose some weight so I can run faster. I haven't paid any attention. After all, I reckon that fat reserves could keep me from starving to death, right? Besides, the food's been the only good part about the whole situation so far.

To my right, I see Pixie stretching, her uneven black bangs sticking to her forehead over her intense eyes. She looks focused and prepared. Cristina, the deaf girl, is doing cartwheels, perhaps trying to stay loose. In the face of their athleticism, I feel hopelessly clumsy.

My skills with an axe are hardly more than mediocre, and my edible plants knowledge can only go so far. I survey the room of tributes as they stretch or cram in last-minute efforts to learn something new. I wonder which one of them will kill me.

 _Stop thinking that way!_ I reprimand myself angrily. My good attitude is all that's held me together, and if I let it crumble now it will be sure to effect my training session and reflect negatively in my score. Plus, interviews are tomorrow and I need to be prepared. I groan inwardly at the thought. Hepzibah, my stylist, will be sure to put me in the tightest corset she can find, just like in the parade. I could hardly breathe!

Well, fainting would certainly leave an impression. I just don't think it would be a _positive_ one.

A capitol attendant enters the room, and every tribute, even the careers, stop what they're doing and watch as he unlocks a metal door I never knew was there. It must be the hall to the room where we will do our private sessions. The door was completely camouflaged, and I suppose it was to stop any over-eager explorers.

Heading down the hall, I wipe my sweaty palms over my legs, trying to appear calm. There is a room with twenty-four chairs, the number of a district on each one. The boys will go first here; the girls are first at the interviews. The boy from District 1 stands near another door, and the rest of us sit. I settle into the second chair marked 10, and try to calm down, taking deep breaths.

An automated voice tells Caspar Ophir, District 1, to enter, and a door slides open soundlessly. He walks through, looking confident, and the door slides shut behind him before I have a chance to see what's on the other side.

Breathe and relax, breathe and relax. Only nineteen tributes before it's your turn...

* * *

 **Savanna Heron, 34**

 **Capitol Civilian and Head Gamemaker**

* * *

I signal my aide, telling him to summon the first tribute. He bushes a button, and an automated voice orders Caspar Ophir, District 1, to please enter.

Looking confident, the classically handsome boy strides into the room. He gives a bow, and his smile is almost mocking as he moves toward a rack of deadly knives, both for throwing and for fighting. He selects a throwing knife, and tosses it into the head of a human-shaped target on the far wall. My eyebrows come up, the red jewels by my eyes stretching uncomfortably. He has an attitude, that's certain, but he ought to know that the head isn't actually a good target. No one is strong enough to throw a knife through a skull, and unless he's good enough to hit the eye...

 _Overconfident._ That's the best word that describes him. After he tosses a few more knives, he moves like a whirlwind toward a dummy and slices it to ribbons with a dagger. Smirking, he tosses that knife into the target, and stands until I signal that he is dismissed. I mark down a few notes, then summon the District 1 girl.

She's one I've been watching. She has a lot of potential to send my Games in the direction I want them to go. Manipulating tributes to get a good show is an art, and this Atalanta is a brush ready for my expert hand. As she battles a trainer with knives, then hurls spears viciously at a dummy, I know I like what I see. Barring any foolish mistakes, this girl's going to be around a while.

Mercury enters, and I suppress a groan as he goes to knives. Isn't anyone going to do something else? Turns out, he does. An avox enters, carrying a large tureen of stew, and he hurls a knife in her direction. I spring to my feet before I can stop myself, but sink back down before anyone notices. The knife pins her to the wall by her long black hair, which is tied back in a pony tail. She squeaks, and drops the soup in terror.

He's a real peacock, that one. I'll have to keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't go too far in the arena. As of now, I'm rather inclined to reward his boldness. He didn't throw the knife at _us_ after all. That would be taking things too far.

He pulls a deck of cards from his pocket, and tries to be entertaining with a series of tricks. I must admit they pique my curiosity, but he should have saved it for his interview.

Dismissing him, I summon the girl from Two. She starts to head for the knives, then, probably seeing me roll my eyes, heads for survival instead. I lean forward in my seat. I already know she's got decent talents with knives, and rather strong archery skills. Now is her chance to show me something I don't already know. She does. She paints herself into a tree, matching the synthetic bark of the trees in the climbing station. I have to look closely to see where she is. Then she lights a fire, her movements hard to follow in her green and brown paint. Suddenly, she shimmies a few feet up the trunk and pulls herself awkwardly up into the branches. These skills aren't particularly flashy, but they _are_ unusual. I'll giver her at least as good a score as the girl with the spears.

The boy from Three enters with flair. A somersault, to be precise. He handsprings over to a survival station, and precedes to make an excellent trap using rope and wires. The fact that he catches himself in the process isn't too bad; he clambers out and resets it easily with a slightly sheepish smile. Very impressive, if unconventional. The gymnastics succeeded in making a good impression, and I immediately like this guy.

Now it's the girl, the twelve year old. Let me guess, she's going to do archery, right? It's all she's gone near throughout all of training, after all. Yep. She grabs a bow and arrows that aren't powerful enough to hurt a fly, and while she has decent aim, I 'd be willing to bet she can't handle a real bow. Well, at least she knows how to nock an arrow and has decent aim. That'll be good enough for a...five. I'd love to see the temper tantrum she'll throw when she learns her score!

The handsome, dark-skinned boy from four is confident, but he has a certain poise that the boys from One and Two lacked. He doesn't seem as stuck-up, somehow, and as he battles a trainer to a standstill with a sword, then proceeds to courteously request that we include an arakh, an obscure curved sword, in the cornucopia, I find myself leaning toward doing it...he fights so beautifully, I ought to give him the weapon he wants. He alone could make the Games a hit.

The girl throws more knives, though she shows a certain finesse when she gets up close to a few dummies and slits their throats. I'll score her like the rest of the pack...

The boy from Five is summoned, and he stumbles through the doorway as though someone had to shove him. He tries to leap back out, but the door closes before he can. He gives an exasperated groan and sinks down with his back to the door. He sulks, head down, until we dismiss him. I can't quite find it in my heart to be so cruel as to award him a zero, but he came mighty close. It does take some guts to resist that way. He gets a 1.

Zita seems terrified, and her eyelashes are stuck together like she's been crying. However, even though her bottom lip trembles, she holds it together. She lays sticks determinedly together, and after a few occurrences of the sparks from her flint and steel catching her tinder but then burning out, she manages to get a decent fire going. She won't freeze, and fire is definitely useful for cooking and such, but I hope she's smart enough to know that lighting a fire isn't the greatest move in the arena...

Hunter throws spears. Perhaps I'd be impressed that a boy from Six would have even any capabilities whatsoever with spears, but in light of the dazzling performance with said weapon by the girl from One, I'm not inclined to be sympathetic.

The girl from Six is pretty, but that's only a skill at the interviews. Thankfully she can also do some ingenious traps, and that ought to get her a score close to what I plan to award the boy from Three. Pity she didn't think of the somersaults.

The boy from Seven, Phoenix, is a human wildfire. He throws axes, tears a dummy limb from limb, and generally tears up the course. If that's not frightening enough, he proceeds to take several poisonous plants from the edible plants station, and mime coating weapons in them, or leaving them among the other tributes' food. Despite his seeming un-hingedness though, there's a certain hint of sadness in his eyes, and for a moment I wonder what his story is. Then I remember that he's the convict, and I'm to make sure he dies in these Games. I let my momentary curiosity die, and decide to give him a score that will make him a real target.

For a moment, seeing the destruction on the target range, the girl from Seven looks shell-shocked. The next moment, she's swarming up the ropes course like a wild thing, leaping from the course into a tree, and then shimmying up one of the beams that supports the ceiling. Her axe skills seem almost paltry in light of the abilities she has just displayed. So far, she takes the prize for highest outer-district score, except for her partner. Well, I might tie her with the boy from Three.

Cotton is so small, I've already written him off. He camouflages nicely, but I spend most of his session devoting my attention to the new plate of stew brought in by the avox. She seems relieved that the tribute currently in the room isn't chucking knives at her.

The elf-like girl from Eight jogs in, light on the balls of her feet and moving quickly. She springs into action, her back turned to us, obscuring whatever she is doing. All that can be seen is that her fingers are flying. Her session is nearly over when she climbs to her feet, cheeks flushed and looking intensely focused. A simple looking construction of leather and cord hands from her hand, and she loads a small lead weight from the fishing station into the leather pouch. Whipping it up and over, something whizzes through the air, hitting the wall with a crack and then springing back and skittering across the floor. A sling! That's what she made. I lean forward, watching closely as she sends two more shots spinning into the target. then she looks at us expectantly, and when we dismiss her, walks out tall and strong. Interesting technique, but she's much too threatening for the careers to leave her alone. Perhaps it will be an interesting battle, though.

The boy, Leon, from Nine, destroys dummies in a frightening manner. Or he would be destroying them, except that his weapon is a blunt quarterstaff. As it is, his targets would simply be bruised and possibly have some broken bones. He's formidable, but not as good as he could be.

The girl is the deaf one. Perhaps she does know her way around a bow and arrow, but what good is it if she can't hear anyone coming? She's attractive, and a fighter, but I'm not scoring her high. I'm doing her a favor, really. That way the careers won't target her.

Byron from Ten enters, but I don't look up from my dessert. It's the most wonderful sort of cream, and I'm picking the maraschino cherry delicately from the top when an ear-splitting crack shatters the air. It's the boy, with a great big blacksnake whip in his hand! I can't help but startle a little. He fights a trainer with it, and shows excellent control. Plus, he can make it give such a noise as to be quite intimidating. He seemed rather soft in training, but now I know I'm wrong. I'll have to put a whip in the cornucopia, this is too good to miss.

The girl from Ten is shaking, and her feet tangle before she reaches the center of the room. She doesn't fall, but it's enough to lose my attention. There is no room for clumsy tributes in the Games.

The boy from Eleven does something with edible plants, but my ice-cream is calling. He gets a 4, I don't care what he did. District 11 never wins anyway.

The girl does medicinal plants, at least I think she does. I'll score her higher than her partner, anyway. The District 11 girls are always resourceful and make things interesting. Occasionally they even pull off an under-dog win. The boys hardly ever do. They're usually rebels who we have orders to kill anyway...

Twelve boy fistfights. That's impressive, but you're test against anyone with a weapon.

Alabaster, the girl from the ugly district with the pretty name, actually manages to draw my attention. Her lips are pursed in determination as she dismembers dummies with a sword. Her form is good, though her footwork could use improvement. She's very pretty, too. I can't wait for the interviews, as she should be quite an entertainer, if her looks are anything to go by.

We have a good batch this year. It should be exciting. I get to work turning my notes into scores, ready to televise tonight. A thrill of excitement runs through me. There are only two more nights before the bloodbath, and the eyes of Panem will focused on me.

It is both terrifying and exhilarating.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

 _They didn't even look at me!_ I am fuming, furious with the fact that the game makers have already written me off. What good will the things I've worked so hard on the last few days do if I don't get a decent score? They have ruined my chances through their indifference, probably because I'm just a poor deaf girl. Poor deaf girl indeed! I'll show them what an angry deaf girl fighting for her survival can do!

 _How could they?_

The thought begins to replace my anger as the elevator opens, depositing me on the ninth floor where I am caged for this time before the Games. Eilis is there, but Leon and Tabatha are absent. Probably Tabatha is discussing his performance with him. Somehow, I am happy they are gone. Now I can speak to Eilis without feeling self-conscious, or being reprimanded for talking to an avox, or revealing my secret.

Tabatha has written me off. After all, I don't trust myself to speak, so how will I perform an interview? Eilis has not written me off, and we have been secretly practicing something that will leave them struck dumb. Eilis has been helping me talk.

I was frightened when she first signed to me that it could be done. I was afraid that I would sound foolish, or slur my words, or embarrass myself in some other way. But she encouraged me, nagged me, and I decided to try. She cannot speak, and perhaps helping me helps her feel like she can have a voice again. I can speak, and my voice will give her almost as much pleasure as if it was her own. She can hear, but I cannot, she cannot speak, but I can.

I don't know how I sound, but Eilis has assured me I am good. She was even able to get my stylist, a young first-year named Tigris, to sign me the interviewer's questions tomorrow night.

"Hello," I say slowly.

Eilis looks up, and smiles at me.

"They hardly watched my session," I enunciate my words carefully. My hands shake a little, whether with anger or nerves left over from my session I don't know.

What did you do? Eilis asked with her hands.

"I shot a bow and arrows. But the game makers wouldn't even _look_ at me. I doubt my score will be anything at all good. A lot's riding on tomorrow night."

Eilis nods, then reminds me that with a poor score I at least won't be targeted, and that it matches well with my deafness in creating an image of myself as being vulnerable. I _am_ vulnerable, at least more so than most of the others. But I'm not a baby! I'm not dead yet. And that treatment from everyone, be it the trainers or the game makers or Tabatha, is grating on me badly. I almost feel as if Eilis and Tigris are the only ones in this entire no-good Capitol that have even a shred of confidence in me.

But a shred is a shred I suppose.

One seed of faith is all it takes to plant a victory.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

I rub my wrist, wincing a little. I didn't let it show during my session, but I think I tweaked something the wrong way turning that somersault in the door. At least it made the game makers give me their attention. Most little tweaks like this heal overnight, and as long as I'm fine by the Games, I'd say the injury was fair trade.

Dominic, or Leonidas as he's been having us call him - why does he go by his last name when his first is perfectly good? - catches me rubbing and is instantly concerned. I believe he's preparing to have me evacuated by hovercraft and taken to the hospital when the television flickers on and scores are introduced. Head Gamemaker Savanna Heron goes on about how this year's tributes look very strong. Caesar asks her a few questions, but quickly leads into the announcement of the scores as Savanna tells him there's been enough chattering, and let's get down to what everyone's dying to know.

Caspar appears, looking relaxed and almost bored in the official picture they took after he arrived in the Capitol. I'm sure I won't look nearly as good, even though the stylists did their best, and I'm sure my score won't match his 9 either.

The girl from One's face flickers onto the screen looking confident. A score of 9 seems to solidly back her attitude. I wonder if she's mad she didn't outdo her partner?

Mercury gets a 10, and I shiver. There's something I never liked about him. Maybe it's just his district, but I think it's the pale skin and the shifty eyes that make my skin crawl. There's just something sadistic, almost parasitic, about him and his bloodlust.

Eleanor looks insecure in her picture, but her score of 10 is anything but. Her weapons skills weren't exactly stunning in training, and I wonder what she showed the game makers to make them score her higher than the District 1 girl. I lean forward in my chair, trying to calm the angry butterflies waging an all-out war in my stomach. My score is next.

An 8! I pull an 8! Only one lower than the District 1 careers! My stylist gives me a high-five and Leonidas eyes me approvingly, and for a moment the butterflies inside me die down. Then they come surging back. I have a great big target hanging on me now. How could I have been so foolish? Then again, how could I know that making a bomb would be that impressive. I gulp, keeping my fingers crossed as Willi's score appears.

She gives a piercing shriek of indignation as a 5 flashes onto the screen. Personally I don't think it's that bad, but she obviously does as she shoots me an absolutely withering glare and marches from the room. At least we can get the rest of the scores in peace, I think wryly. Hopefully she won't try to kill me in the bloodbath...that would be awkward.

Enzo Garrix, the handsome, intense boy from Four, pulls a 10. I feel happy for him. There was something about him in training that made him seem like he wasn't an average career. I saw him hold the elevator for the girl from Six while they were leaving training on Day Two. There's just something about the boy that makes me think if he wasn't a career I might almost ask him for an alliance. As it is, I better watch my back.

His partner gets a 9. She trained a lot with knives, like most of the others, and I guess the game makers must have been sick of knives by the time she came in.

Then I wince as the boy from Five gets a 1. What he did to be so bad I have no idea. To my knowledge, it's the lowest score any tribute has ever gotten. Does he not care if he lives or dies?

His partner improves slightly with a 4. She's the pretty one with the thick black hair and long eyelashes. She reminds me a little of Ebony, and I feel a wave of homesickness wash over me, as well as a renewed desire to win. Ebony _needs_ me. My mother needs me. I hope they are proud of me, for getting the highest score of all the non-careers. More likely they are terrified, like I am, that it will put a target on my back.

Hunter pulls a 6. He seemed a nice fellow, and I'm glad he didn't do too badly. Come to think of it, I probably should have tried for a 6...

Venna achieves a 7, and I feel instantly threatened. We worked together a lot in traps, and I thought she was pretty good. Now that the gamemakers have validated that impression, I ought to watch out for her. We'll likely have similar strategies and might end up in the same area.

The frightening boy eclipses my 8 with a 10, and I instantly breathe a sigh of relief. Now the careers will be focused on him for getting a career score. Hopefully they'll focus on him before he has a chance to focus on me, if his training behavior is anything to go by.

Emmett ties my score with an 8, and I relax further. All the same, I hope she isn't targeted. She's very pretty, and seems like a nice girl.

Unsurprisingly, the District 8 twelve year old gets a 4, and I feel a pang of sympathy. He is too young for this. We are _all_ too young for this.

His partner gets an 8, and I wonder what she did. She seemed focused and athletic during training, but that isn't enough to get a career score. She must, like me, have shown a weapon whose mechanics she had pretended not to know until she was in private. I plan to stay away from her.

The boy that was practicing with the quarterstaff I'm guessing will get around a 7, and my guess proves right. He's a good fighter, but a quarterstaff can only do so much damage. The gamemakers would be aware of that.

I feel bad for the deaf girl before her score is even shown, and when she get don't feel much better. She should be being cared for by people who love her, not fighting in a death match against kids who can hear. She's even more at a disadvantage then the rest of us, and for a moment I hate myself for not helping her. I could have offered her an alliance.

The boy from Ten manages a Seven. I saw that he and the Six boy were allying at lunch. I wish that I could bring myself to trust someone that way, but I just can't. I'll be flying solo.

Both the District 10 girl and the boy from Eleven get 4's. I'm slightly surprised. They both seemed better than that during training...

The girl from Eleven outscores her partner with a 5.

The boy from Twelve gets a 6.

So does his partner.

Overall, the scores are perhaps slightly higher than usual, but fairly average. Except mine. I have trouble falling asleep worrying that the careers will target me, or the boy from Seven will target me...

Finally I drift off, wondering what weapon the girl from Eight showed off...

* * *

 _ **Were the scores what you expected?**_

 _ **Are you excited for the interviews?**_

 _ **Are there any interactions you want to see before the Games begin?**_

 _ **What would your score be if you were a tribute, and why would you have gotten it?**_


	27. Bravery and Sympathy - The Interviews

**Here are the interviews, with a bit of pre-interview and post-interview to boot! Please enjoy, and read and review. I will not be killing tributes based off who reviews, but when given the choice between a tribute whose submitter is active and one who I have no idea if they are reading, I will likely choose the former. So, if you have been reading but not reviewing, even just typing "Hi" or something to let me know you're there would be great! Enjoy the interviews.**

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

My hands are shaking so hard, and I can hardly breathe. There are still hours to go before the interviews, and I am already a mess. Eilis has been trying to reassure me, but I refuse to be consoled. I'm so frightened.

I want to be strong. Want to show all the other tributes that I can't hear but I certainly see and speak just fine. The problem is that I _can't_ really speak. Eilis has been helping me, and telling me that I sound good, but I have no idea what the words leaving my mouth sound like. It's why I hardly talked before. Now I regret it. I have relied on speaking with my hands for so long that now...

Tabatha enters the room, a ridiculous skirt coated in pink sequins twirling around her, and grabs me by the hand. I jerk my wrist from her grip, angry. She has made no effort to speak to me, or learn to use signs, but has dragged me from place to place like a disobedient dog during my entire stay in the Capitol.

Then again, she makes her living off of objectifying children's deaths. No wonder she treats me like a dog. She probably considers us all somewhere below animals in terms of inherent dignity.

Turns out, it's my stylist she's taking me to see.

Tigris' gold eyes light up and she wraps me in a hug. As soon as Tabatha leaves the room, I relax. Tigris has been nothing but kind, and was the one who got Eilis reassigned from train attendant to tribute servant so that she could serve as my interpreter. I am indebted to her, whether I survive or no.

Now, she speaks to Eilis, her feline face animated, and Eilis signs to me that my interview outfit is ready. I am to be prepped, and Tigris is warning me so that I will not be startled when the prep team enters. I nod gratefully, then, suddenly bold, say the words: "Thank you."

Tigris smiles again, and Eilis looks proud. Perhaps I really can do it in the interviews. But first things first. Prep time.

As if in response to my mental cue, the entire team barges into the room, feathers and long eyelashes and scarves all tangling as they trip over one another in their excitement. Here's a moment where not being able to hear feels like a blessing rather than a curse.

Once in the makeup chair, I surrender myself to their ministrations. It feels wrong in some way to admit it, but in the tribute parade I hardly recognized myself, in a good way. They made me beautiful like I had never been before, and something snaps inside me. The only way the Capitol can appreciate beauty is when it's gone. That's why they dress us up, get to know us, dote on us, and then watch us die. So that they'll miss us when we are gone.

How about that we are people? Not things for them to mistreat. We are not acting when we sob, begging sponsors to remember us in the arena. We are children that don't want to die before we have even begun to live.

I understand why people like my uncle and brother would rebel. But at the same time, I know that I am not as brave as them. When push comes to shove, I will plead for my live just as loudly, grovel just as low, as any of the others.

Tigris mimes closing her eyes and I comply, not resisting as someone lifts me to my feet and slips something over my naked body. I am used to being poked and prodded now, and with Tigris doing it it does not feel as threatening as perhaps it should. I am becoming one of them.

When I open my eyes, the woman staring at me from the mirror nearly dazzles me. Because that is what she is. A woman.

Bold. Terrifying. Rebellious?

No, I cannot find the third part. But one thing is for sure: she is beautiful.

A long dress of thin, supple leather, the kind gloves are made of, falls to the floor in slightly shiny folds. It pools around my feet, just managing to reveal gold sandals traced with wheat. Arm-bands of gold, with more grain engraved along them, twine from my wrists all the way up to near my shoulders. On a belt, earrings...the gold wheat motif is everywhere.

My hair is curled, sleek, and glowing, dusted in sparkles of gold. It does not look dull and mousy any longer. And my plain blue-grey eyes, wide and once the opposite of threatening, are innocent no longer. Boldly delineated in red, they are confident and a little frightening. My nails are the same red, and everywhere I see this dark color, like blood but not so violent, stares me in the face.

If Tigris can make me so beautiful, I can conjure up the words to match.

With a grin, I speak again.

"I'm ready."

* * *

 **Ebony Conroy, 16**

 **District 3**

 **Girlfriend of Tribute Daniel "Danny" Sparks**

* * *

What will I see when Dan takes the stage tonight? Will he be a monster? Or will he have given up?

Both possibilities are terrifying. I want so badly to see him again, but I do not want our desire to cost him his soul. He can find a way, to win without doing evil, I tell myself. His mother Techna has told me the same thing. Tried to reassure me. Invited me to share their dinner tonight and watch the Interviews with them.

I am terrified of what I may see. The boy I love, or something else?

I must have faith.

Turning it into a mantra, I repeat it over and over as the seal of Panem lights up the television screen. Techna puts an arm around my shoulder and squeezes, and I can see her husband doing the same for her on the other side. I remind myself that I must keep calm. How petty it would seem for them to be forced to comfort me. I have lost a friend, they are losing a son. Instead, we comfort each other as Caesar flicker man takes the stage and the broadcast begins.

First on the stage is Atalanta from District 1, playing the usual provocative angle of the District 1 female. I relax slightly. She is pretty, but does not appear to have anything special up her sleeve. Careers are always to be feared, but careers _can_ be beaten. When there is a career that is different, real rather than a teenager with delusions of grandeur, things start to get dangerous. For now, Dan is in no more danger than on an average year.

She speaks confidently and easily with Ceasar, showcasing what appears to be a dangerous skill set. With a toss of her head that sends the small black and purple curls around her bun bouncing, she proclaims confidently "I'd say victory is inevitable in my case."

On that proud note, her interview ends and Caspar appears.

"Hello sir," he says civilly, shaking Caesar's hand. His meticulous white shirt-cuffs and crisp khaki pants make him look squared away, businesslike, and respectful, but something about his smile is insincere. He's a good actor, and it's likely that many of the Capitol citizens will be taken in, but I'm not and I pray that Dan won't be either.

"Welcome, Caspar," Caesar answers. "Won't you have a seat? Our chats may be shorter than ideal, but standing the whole time is still hard on the legs for an old man like me."

"Thank you," Caspar smiles. "I'd get tired, and I've been training all my life. Don't sell yourself short, you're no fossil yet."

Laughing, they exchange more cheerful banter until it is Eleanor's turn.

I saw the recaps for the Reapings after we came home from saying goodbye to Dan, and Eleanor seemed like a wild card. I lean forward in my seat, smoothing my blue skirt and swallowing hard.

She looks especially pale in a black dress, and the lack of color is threatening. Her nails are a normal color, painted nude, but shiny and long. Her piercings hold black studs that flash like twisted stars. Her heels are so spiky they look like she could stab someone with them.

"Salutations," she says, her eyelids lowered and dark eyeliner prominent. I feel uneasy just watching her. Hopefully my parents will turn off the television if things get racy. That way she's going, I don't want my younger siblings watching.

"Ah, how cultured," Caesar says, kissing her pale hand valiantly. "She's no barbarian, is she?" he winks at the audience.

The girl sniffs and sits without being invited to do so, crossing her legs and arms. She still won't make eye contact, and is playing the audience well. "Of course I'm not a barbarian. Only barbarians are barbarians," she sasses, as though it's a profound revelation. The audience laughs at the obvious comment, and she shoots them a look, curling her lip in an almost sneering smile that says she knows she's scored a point.

"True, miss, I should never jump to conclusions," Caesar says in a conciliatory tone. "Perhaps you'd like to share with us what District 2 is like? For those of us that still have delusions of barbarity."

She smiles that condescending smile again, but sounds more civil as she opens up. "It's quite intense. Everyone expects everyone else to volunteer, and the competition to get to the stage on Reaping day can be fierce. Thankfully I didn't have to break any noses." She dusts of her palms as though recoiling at the very thought.

"Yes, that was fortunate," Caesar agrees. "Well, I'll let you go get some rest for tomorrow then."

"Alright," Eleanor sighs, seeming almost reluctant to go. Then she gets cocky again. "After all, I'll be breaking more than noses."

The elvish looking boy from Two is wearing black like his partner, but a suit not a dress. It's dusted in silver sparkles that twinkle like stars under the stage lights. He greets Caesar, and when asked what his decision to volunteer for the Games stemmed from, he gives the audience a confused glance and informs them that: "I took a wrong turn at the bakers, and here I am I guess. Once I was at the square, I figured a bit of Hunger Games might liven up the morning."

He yawns as though the whole thing was and still is beneath his notice. He gets a lot of laughs, and I find my trepidation growing as the little girl that is Danny's partner takes the stage. She's wearing a long pink dress with her hair in a beehive, and while some might thinks she looks nice, I think the whole ensemble is much too grown up. She tries to be sassy as well, but coming from a twelve year old, and on the heels of sass-master Eleanor, she strikes me as shallow. "Don't think I can't win, I'm used to getting what I want," she says.

I believe her.

Then I bite my lip and all other thoughts cease to exist as Danny enters the spotlight. A stab of pain shoots through me. He looks so familiar, but at the same time handsome in a way I've never seen him before. His brown hair is messy as usual, but above a navy blu suit, crisp yellow bow tie, and shiny black shoes he seems like a more inaccessible and yet more wonderful version of himself. A lump comes into my throat and I bite my lip harder to keep from crying.

"Hello Caesar," he says, but his mind seems like it's somewhere else. "You look nice."

"That's my Dan. Ever the gentleman," Techna says softly.

"You're looking quite dapper yourself," Caesar encourages him. "Have you got a girl back home? Because I'm sure she's swooning. And if you don't have one, well, they all want to _be_ the one."

"I do have a girl," Dan says, so softly as to be almost inaudible. "She's not particularly tall, or stunning in a Capitol way, but she's brave and loyal and true, and I'll always love her. She has heard me sing to her, and she knows how I feel. Ebony, all the things I've ever told you about your beauty and your goodness are true. I love you, and I always will. No matter what you see in the arena, remember this: I am yours, and you are mine, even if the odds never seem to be in our favor."

There is something wet on my face, and my resolve to be brave crumbles. I bury my face in Techna's shoulder and sob. I can hear Caesar saying how it's a pity there's no more time for him to sing something to me now, and Dan agreeing, but I have no ears to hear. We _do_ belong with each other. That's why what's happened oh so wrong!

Eventually I manage to compose myself, just as the District 4 girl is finishing her interview. After the personal _real_ -ness that Danny just displayed, she seems so fake. I can see the audience members wiping their eyes think so too, although a few of the men are staring at this girl in rapt attention. No wonder.

Her dress is a beautiful shade of blue that brings out her deep blue eyes, but beyond that is the fact that the dress barely covers her. It is short, off the shoulder, and hugs her body half to death. Shocking pink heels with matching roses among her frizzy curls draw the eye in a way that is typical of the Capitol. "It's wonderful to see you all face to face," she tells the audience. "I look forward to knowing you more personally once I win."

They are practically slavering. I turn my eyes away from the scene, wishing she knew what she was doing to herself.

Her district partner is dressed more appropriately and is quite handsome, his dark hair slicked back and a red and black tuxedo with a red cape somehow don't look threatening over his earnest brown eyes. As careers go, he is more appealing than most, and I pity him. But Danny is in the arena, so this boy will have to die.

He doesn't try to be attractive, and when Caesar asks him what he'll miss most about District 4, I see why. "Hazel, I love you," he says, and he _is_ sincere. But then he segues into comedy. "However, there's one thing District 4 couldn't give me. The food! I mean, the cooks here are absolutely _amazing._ Some variety at last! Lobster might be a delicacy here, but a guy gets sick of eating it every day back home. Give me a Capitol stake slathered in gooey-"

He goes off on a long tangent describing food and I tune out the rest of his time.

The District 5 girl enters, and I can see right away that she is terrified and uncomfortable, and I sympathize. The dress she's in is completely innppropriate, slinky and black and leaving nothing to the imagination. The urge to cross her arms over her chest is practically radiating off her. She teeters perilously on platform heels, and practically falls into the chair. Her eyes are brimming with tears, and her makeup is in very real danger. I feel my heart going out to her, and Caesar seems to soften too. He tries to lead her, asking her about her goals and strategies in the arena.

"I don't want to die," she says almost plaintively. "I just want to go home. All I wanted was to start a family, have someone love me...hold a child and know it was mine..." Her voice dies away.

Caesar gallantly offers her a handkerchief, and after blowing her nose, she manages a watery smile. He rubs her back a few times, assuring her that she'll be alright and that he's certain the boys in her district are all wondering what they missed, but the comment seems to rub her the wrong way and as she leaves the stage she looks like she can't decide whether to cry or get mad. It _was_ a rather insensitive thing to say. I don't think Zita cares what the boys are thinking _now._

The next boy is staring at his tan shoes, and not even his crisp khaki suit can make him one whit interesting or attractive. He's Dan's age, and I pray that they aren't allies. If I know one thing about people, this boy has already given up. Caesar asks him what happened with his low score - he got a one - and the boy explains that: "I trudged in and trudged out. Is there a problem?"

Maybe he'd sound sassy if his tone wasn't so flat. Caesar gives up and lets him scowl at the floor for the rest of the interview.

Venna from Six is just as striking as she was in her conductor's uniform at the parade, and a strapless blue dress the same color as her outfit that day makes me think her stylist knows what she is doing. Her hair is held back by a whispy braid, and she looks angelic. After all the revealing outfits before her, she is quite refreshing. Her voice, high and breathy, adds to the air of delicacy. It's not the most profitable angle perhaps, but she seems to know what she is doing. Caesar asks her how she has enjoyed the Capitol, and she tells him, lowering her eyelashes and smiling shyly, that, "The atmosphere is just perfect. Everyone has been so kind. I feel like a princess."

"You look like one too," Caesar says gently, and, blushing lightly, Venna hands the stage over to her district partner.

He looks uncomfortable and shy, and I can see that his stylist didn't learn anything from the parade, that being that this young man is not flattered by tight outfits. He's only slightly overweight, and would look fine if his stylist didn't dress him so squeezed. If he were threatening, he might do alright, but he looks nearly as lost as Zita did. "I'm going to do my best," he says when Caesar asks for his strategy, but anyone can see his heart isn't in it.

With the interviews halfway done there is a break for commercials, and I stand up and stretch my legs. Dan looked good. He came of really well. I'm still worried for him, and I will never stop worrying until he is back safe beside me, together, where we belong.

* * *

 **Luke Gard, 18**

 **District 7**

 **Boyfriend of Tribute Emmett McLean**

* * *

The interviews so far have filled me with more indignation than ever over the state of this country. Children, who only want love, recognition and happiness, should not be forced to die before their time. I would die in a heartbeat for any one of them. But when Emmett was called there was nothing I could do. I could, perhaps, have volunteered to go in with her, and while I know she never would have forgiven me I have berated myself every moment for not doing so.

Now with her interview coming next, I try to stop myself from doing something foolish, like running outside and starting a rebellion. I am at Emmett's house now, along with her best friends Jo and Winnie. Emmett had confided to me that neither of the girls likes the other much, but they put aside their differences immediately when I asked them to be here for Emmett's mother and brother. We were frightened of what Mr. Schmitt might do, what with the drinking and the stress. So far both Emmett's mother and Keagan are holding on, though it is heartwrenching to watch Keegan call out "Emmie!" whenever her picture appears on the screen. It is good, for once, that his mind cannot process what is going on around him.

Emmett's cat Willow stalks up and down, as though waiting for her mistress. I too, and waiting for my first sight in a week of the girl I love. The girl I want to make my wife. The woman who accepted me in the Justice Building.

The screen lights up, and Jo leans forward, gripping my arm. I think she too would like to rip the throat from anyone that threatens our friend.

The girl that takes the stage is so beautiful that I feel my heart stop as a stab of pain runs through me. She is smiling now, for the cameras, but I know her well and can see the sadness and fear in her eyes. She is in way over her head. She should not have to deal with any of this.

"Good evening Emmett," Caesar greets. "For someone with such a boyish name, you're looking quite radiant."

"Evening, and thank you Caesar," she answers. "I like it too. Not that I'm not missing my old flannel and jeans. They're much more practical for climbing trees."

Caesar laughs. "Agreed. Wearing silks and satins does rather dampen one's bravado."

"True. But still, it's gorgeous."

Emmett still hasn't sat, and as she does, she does a sort of half-twirl that sends her shiny blue skirt twirling. Putting her hands in her lap and leaning slightly forward so that the light reflects off her arms underneath dainty capped sleeves, and crossing her ankles to show off delicate white slippers, she is prepared for whatever Caesar throws at her next.

"It really is. And yet, I think that was obvious at the first. What some may be wondering is how such a lovely creature plans to win the Games," he prompts.

"Yes." Emmett's face hardens. "I've got a few tricks stored away. The Games are not for the faint of heart. I'm ready to do whatever it takes."

"That's the spirit," Caesar praises. "Well folks, District 7's latest nymph is tough as nails! Thank you Emmett."

She nods to him politely before walking with long, marching paces off the stage. She came off as determined but still attractive. That's the girl I know all the way. I pray that she can get through this battle without losing her spirit.

Next is her partner. The murderer. He is wearing a baby blue suit that would look kind on another person, but when paired with his dark skin and icy eyes, is more like he could freeze with a stare.

 _Please stay away from him Emmett._

"Phoenix," Caesar welcomes. "How nice to meet you. We've been watching you carefully during training, as you were a volunteer. What skills make you so confident about your chances in the arena? You had an excellent score."

"Yeah, everything I did in my session was stuff I learned at home. I could have gotten a 12 if I'd had more time. Either way, I am more than prepared for these Games. The careers would do well to consider me as an ally. They'll need someone that knows the woods."

The boy's voice is deep and resonant, and I pray that he does join the careers, betrays them, and dies the first day. After several more equally confident and menacing statements, he shakes Caesar's hand - I think I see him wince - and leaves the stage.

Rose from District 8 comes out next. Her clogs are so yellow they hurt my eyes with their sparkles, and it takes me a moment to register the rest of her outfit. She is wearing an olive green plaid skirt and a white polo, and her hair is in a small bun with jagged whisps hanging on the sides of her face. There are yellow sparkles by her eyes, and she looks supremely confident. For a somewhat short, skinny girl she manages to cut a rather imposing figure.

"Good evening," she beams. "It's wonderful to meet you. What would you like to hear?"

Her bright lips, coated in purplish lipstick, are stretched in a smile. There is pain in her eyes though. She's not as good an actor as she thinks she is. Her apprehension shows in her tense posture as she takes a seat.

"Well, I think what we're most dying to know about is your training score. An 8 from an Eight is quite rare."

"Calm down Caesar, you know I mustn't tell." She wags a finger playfully. "It's confidential. But you'll see soon enough."

"I'm quite excited. Truth be told, I'm near quaking in anticipation. So, tide us over. Why should we be your fans?"

"Because I've got my head in the Game," she answers, and cheers and whistles greet the answer.

"Well, it appears your time is up. But we'll be eagerly awaiting tomorrow's big reveal: How did Rose Castellano get an 8 in training? Thank you Rose, and good luck."

With a sprightly wave the girl skips off the stage. Just as she reaches the exit, she looks back over her shoulder. "Call me Pixie!"

My heart aches as her district partner enters. It's little Cotton, only thirteen, and they've dressed him so old he looks even younger. In a gold tuxedo, his big puppy eyes staring plaintively over a stiff collar and white carnation in his buttonhole, I think he's ready to cry. It's so stupid that the Capitol would send him into the games. He wasn't born during the Rebellion. His mother probably wasn't even born during the Rebellion! And yet, they are sending this child, this innocent lamb, to his death. It is heartbreaking that this cruelty could even exist.

"Hello son, have a seat," Caesar says kindly. Whatever else might be said about the man, at least he has the grace to be kind to this little child. "How are you doing here? That suit is certainly striking."

The boy's eyes widen like a deer caught in a spotlight, and he looks frantically at Caesar as he leans forward. "I'm sorry could you say that again?"

"I said that you're looking wonderful and I hope that you are finding things to enjoy here," Caesar clarifies gently.

"I - I'm sorry - I - I didn't quite catch that," poor Cotton stutters. No matter what Caesar says the boy is so terrified that the rest of his interview is some variation of that statement, over and over again. When the three minutes are up, he is mercifully allowed to leave the stage.

The District 9 girl looks beautiful, but the uncertainty she feels is evident as she makes her way to the stage. She's the deaf one, and I see an avox girl dressed in white standing to the side of the stage to act as interpreter. Caesar greets her as he has the others and asks her to sit, and wonders allowed what her strategy might be. He says he's certain it will be like nothing they've seen before.

Haltingly, the girl speaks. Her words are slightly slurred, no doubt because she cannot hear herself enunciate, but her confidence grows and by the end of the sentence she is sitting tall with eyes flashing: "No matter what I do in the Games, it will be a victory, because I have shown myself that I am brave. Braver than I ever thought I could be."

"Thank you Cristina, that sounded wonderful," Caesar smiles. "Best of luck tomorrow."

She thanks him graciously and leaves.

Her partner slouches in, with unkempt hair contrasting against a crisp suit and gilt bow tie. When asked about his strategy he smiles easily and answers: "Man, I'm just here to have fun, enjoy myself yah know, get to know my fellow tributes, kill the ones I don't like, trick the ones I do like into killing each other, but really I'm just gonna relax and take this whole ride in stride."

His attitude is so fake, and so ridiculous, and yet the Capitol citizens are near eating out of his hand. The idea of an outer district volunteer that _understands_ them! How wonderful! I shake my head, wishing that the districts weren't always so willing to play along for survival.

Poor Ricotta looks terribly squeezed, a burgundy dress that seems to knead her into a Capitol ideal for beauty. It looks tight and uncomfortable, and the slight red of her face underneath her makeup seems to confirm that she's having difficulty breathing. When Caesar greets her and asks her how she's doing she laughs and smiles, but the laugh sounds more like a desperate attempt at a decent exhalation. She is likable enough, and has an endearing face and attitude, but I can tell that the Capitol people sense her unease.

"I'm excited to try out the skills I learned in District 10. I've killed plenty of animals but never another person. It's going to be very strange and new. I suppose it's an adventure!" She laughs again, but it still sounds forced. The way the Capitol is objectifying her, already twisting her, is horrible.

By this point much of the Capitol audience has become restless, and some are even heading for the exits. I'm glad that I have watched all the interviews though when I see the boy from Ten. He's dressed in a warm brown tuxedo, and his entire attitude is warm. He is the kind of man I would like to know in real life. Caesar talks to him a little about his life back in Ten, asks him if he has a girl to which he replies: "Perhaps, if when I come home she'll have me." That gets the attention of a few people that are getting ready to leave, and upon being asked if he's got any closing thoughts the boy faces the audiences and proclaims sincerely: "The world can suck. That's why I try to make it suck a little bit less by helping others."

I'm not sure how much his audience knows about a world that sucks, but I do, and my heart goes out to him. Yet if I see Emmett again, he will have had to die...

The District 11 girl is dressed more appropriately for her age than the other young tributes. Her bright green sundress is patterned with sparkling red apples, and she wears matching red sandals. She radiants innocence. The District 11 tributes are always so young, and yet so brave. More than once I have seen them sacrifice themselves for other tributes, and even siblings volunteering for each other without hesitation. I think it is because of this fire, this rebellious urge to do the right thing, that the Capitol makes sure they suffer.

"I'm not afraid of the Games," the girl says simply. "I don't want my family and friends to have to lose me, but as for myself I'm just not afraid. I will fight hard, but if I fail...well, I'll make sure that I did the right thing."

That's what I mean about the District 11's. They are always so brave. Even the young ones.

"That's very brave Capri," Caesar tells her admiringly. "But don't sell yourself short."

"Don't worry, I won't," she answers softly. "I'm ready for anything that happens."

No matter the size of the tributes, I think this little girl from Eleven has made them all look small. Inside, she is bigger than all the rest of us.

Her partner is also young, and wears a frown and a generic suit. Caesar asks him how he likes it here and he just snorts. When asked if he misses home, he snorts again, saying: "If money buys happiness, I must be depressed." I don't think Caesar is sure how to respond to that, and he doesn't try.

By now a good half of the audience has left and I'm considering turning in myself. However, there are only two more tributes to go, and none of the others have shown signs of tiredness. Winnie has a few tears on her face; the District 11 girl made her cry, and Jo's hands are clenched in fists at her sides until her knuckles show white through her tan. Tomorrow our friend will be fighting in a death match.

I steal a glance at Emmett's mother, but she's holding up alright. Keegan is asleep on her lap, and the cat too snores by the foot of the couch.

The District 12 girl has stunning natural beauty, and even a rather poor make up job and plain black a-line dress dusted in glitter can't dampen her preparedness. She starts out flattering the Capitol, praising the gorgeous fashion designs and kind treatment. "As a girl from District 12, I've never had cause to be treated so capitally, no pun intended. Ever since I was a child and saw Purnelia Snowbell in her gorgeous dress calling names from that stage, I dreamed of visiting the Capitol. Escaping from a sad life in a sad district, and earn the respect of the respectable. That's always been my dream."

I bet it hasn't, but still, she's a good actress. Hopefully Emmett wouldn't ally with her, but she can be too trusting and I don't know. Not for the first time, I beg her to stay on her toes in that arena.

Her partner can act too as he trots onto the stage, swinging into his seat with a flair. Caesar asks if he plans to be Twelve's second victor, and the boy answers almost scornfully: "If I don't do anything weak, of course I'll win! It'll be easy!"

"And why's that?" Caesar asks.

"Because only the good die young," the boy answers smugly.

I can't help but laugh slightly. It was an excellent answer. But it's too true.

Suddenly the faces of Capri, and then Emmett float before my face and my mirth dies. The Games are evil. There is no way around it.

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

When Romulus praises me for my interview, telling me how much better I did than Cotton, I can't summon an answer. Yes I did well. Yes I killed it out there. Yes, I'll probably kill it tomorrow. But what about the ones who tomorrow will be _getting_ killed?

After his performance at the interviews, Cotton will almost certainly be one of those.

I wouldn't listen to him during training. Wouldn't ally with him, because I knew he'd hold me back. It was so cruel. But I have to survive! I did what I had to do to survive! Then again, "survival" of peace between the districts is how the Hunger Games have been justified. Furious, with myself and everything else, I storm into my room slamming the door an locking it behind me. I drag off my ridiculous neon clothes and climb into the shower, programming a setting with gritty soap and viciously scrubbing every ounce of makeup and scents from my body. I tear the sparkling yellow paint from my fingernails in rolls, not caring about the dents and streaky bits left over. I want to distance myself from this whole thing.

 _Tomorrow I won't be able to..._

 _Shut up stupid brain!_

 _You know I'm right._

I can't keep being so conflicted! Snatching my list from the window sill, I pore over my strategy. _Knife, water purifier, sling material, rope or string, disinfectant, backpack or sack, non-spoilable food, medical supplies._

The essential items for survival dance before my eyes until I grind my knuckles against my face to stop the images of what could go wrong. Who will die. Who I might kill...

I rest my arms on the windowsill, my head on my arms, and try to force myself to stop thinking.

When I wake up it is pitch dark in my room. A digital clock flashes the numbers 11:30 in bright red neon. Groggily, I rise to my feet and try to rub away the kink that formed in my neck. I need sleep, and yet once again my brain is active and desperate. _There must be something I can do to prepare. I'm not sleeping anyway._

Deciding to go get a snack, I feel my way to the door and unbolt it, going out to the dining room. An avox is still clearing the remnants of dinner; Romulus must only just have gone to bed. I order a cup of hot lemon tea with lots of sugar, and a bowl of beef stew, and am walking back to my room when I hear the sobs. I am not the only tribute that is wakeful tonight.

Every one of my instincts is telling me that the sound is none of my business. I should just go back to bed. And yet I know that now is my chance to fix my cruelty during training. I am being offered a chance at redeeming myself.

Sighing, not knowing why I'm doing this, I set my tray of food on the floor and gently open the door to Cotton's room. In the dim light of his nightlight, I can see him hunched on the bed, shoulders shaking. My stomach churns, and I would like nothing more than to leave. But now is my chance to be a good person.

"Hey," I say quietly, tentatively sitting down next to him. "You doing okay?"

He shakes his head, not raising his face from the blankets. Hesitantly, I place a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be alright," I say, even though I highly doubt it. This isn't right. Lying to him is almost as bad as just ignoring him. What else can I do?

"That isn't true Pixie," he snaps, voice heavy with despair. "Everybody's saying it, and they know it isn't true! Have you ever seen a person dead before?"

Yes. I have. My father with a bullet through his head after they found him behind the factory. I was small, but the image is burned indelibly into my brain. Somehow I don't think saying this would be helpful. The truth is that he's frightening me. I could die too tomorrow. My father's face continues to float before my eyes, and suddenly I notice something about it that I never saw before. He looks peaceful.

Not frightened. Peaceful. Like he's finally found a safe place where he doesn't have to worry about feeding his wife and three kids. Like he doesn't have to get talked down to and mocked by the peacekeepers anymore.

Now I too am in danger of crying, but I know what to tell Cotton, and so I do, even though my voice threatens to break.

"Yes. My father was killed when I was young. Only ten. I saw his body when they brought him home. But Cotton, he didn't look scared. He looked happy. I'm certain that wherever he went, he was finally safe."

"So we should just all die?" Cotton rasps. "I should just jump off my plate so I'll be safe?"

"No, you should try to get back home," I say. "That's what I'll be doing. But if we don't, then we'll be safe. Where no one can hurt us."

"You really believe that?" he asks. He still sounds suspicious.

Do I? Do I believe it? "Yes," I say firmly. "Now get some rest. I should too."

He lies down and I go to leave, but before I'm halfway to the door he stops me. "Pixie?"

"Yes?"

"Will you sing?"

I hesitate, then turn around and go back to sit next to him. "Yes."

I stroke his hair, and for a moment I feel something I've never felt before. Most of my life I've been fighting so hard to survive. Feed my mother and Thorn. Dodge peacekeepers. Keep my big mouth shut. I never had a younger sibling, or time to spend with anyone younger than me. There's something that feels so natural about what I'm doing now though. Like I'm protecting him, keeping him safe. Me just being here for him is really important to him. I wonder if I'd let myself protect my family, instead of feeling bitter that I had to feed them, I wonder if they would have looked at me like this too.

Like I was the best thing that ever happened to them. Softly, I sing a song that I heard somewhere before. My father said it was from an old story, about courage and honor. Those values have been so far from me for so long. But the words stayed in my brain, and now as I sing them, I think I'm beginning to understand why some people aren't afraid to die. Why my father looked so peaceful.

 _"Lay down  
Your sweet and weary head  
Night is falling  
You have come to journey's end_

 _Sleep now  
And dream of the ones who came before  
They are calling  
From across the distant shore_

 _Why do you weep?  
What are these tears upon your face?  
Soon you will see  
All of your fears will pass away_

 _And you'll be here  
In my arms  
Just sleeping..."_

I finish the song as Cotton drifts off. As I sing the part about the horizon, and the ships coming to carry the brave one home to where he'll be safe, I beg that I will have the strength to be brave, and face my fears, and be as trusting and kind as this little boy.

I thought he was weak, and yet he has taught me so much.

* * *

 **There's the interviews, and a few other tidbits of character development! Only launch, and then the bloodbath. I don't want to kill any of these guys. Especially with so many of them becoming so brave.**

 _ **Whose interview was your favorite?**_

 _ **What do you think of the new character traits being displayed by Cris and Pixie?**_

 _ **Have your opinions on any tributes changed since you first met them?**_

 _ **What would your interview angle and quote be?**_

 _ **What did you think of telling the interviews from the POVs of tributes' loved ones back home?**_

 _ **If you could put one item in the cornucopia, what would it be?**_

 **Credit for Pixie's song goes to Annie Lennox and whoever else owns the soundtrack rights for LOTR: Return of the King. All other songs in this story belong to me, unless otherwise noted.**


	28. Terror and Tears - Launch

**The launch is here. So it begins. First, a brief word from our Head Gamemaker.**

* * *

 **Savanna Heron, 34**

 **Capitol Civilian and Head Gamemaker**

* * *

The tokens are done being tested: scanned for chemicals and hidden weapons. Most were okay, we had a few glitches. The District 1 Male's sword pendant could actually be drawn, and had been dipped in strychnine. We removed the poison, soldered the tiny sword into it's sheath, and are going to let him take back his token. It'll be fun to see him discover what happened.

The District 7 boy, the murderer, took a small bottle on a chain. That in and of itself was suspicious, so I wasn't surprised to learn that it contained juice from poison hemlock. We cleaned and disinfected the vial, and are giving it back to him.

The girl from District 8's ribbon was contaminated with trace amounts of chloroform. It's mostly dry and evaporated though, so we're not going to worry about it. The amount is so small anyway, that even at full strength it's unlikely that she would have been able to attack another tribute with it. All in all, we've got a pretty devious batch of tributes this year. It should be fun.

The arena is prepped and ready, and I push a button that sends a message ordering the tribute hovercraft dispatched.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

I twist my leather bracelet around and around on my wrist, then bring it to my nose and inhale the reassuring barn-y, sheep-y smell of the farm. I purse my lips, trying not to cry. The hovercraft is dark, but the careers would still see my weakness. I don't want to draw any sort of attention to myself with the games so near.

A woman in a crisp white Gamemakers uniform moves down the center of the hovercraft. She asks me to hold out my wrist, and I comply. The boy next to me was frightened, and the woman explained that she was only injecting his tracker, so I don't flinch away when she produces a giant needle and holds it above the crook in my elbow.

All the same, I am not prepared for the moment of terrible aching pain that fills my arm. The idea that the Capitol can follow me wherever I go now is disconcerting, as is the idea of having some tiny robot inside my arm.

The Games.

They are so very close.

The bloodbath.

Will I have to kill?

In a way, the whole experience is very exciting. I've helped my father slaughter animals on the farm before. I'm used to blood, and I know how to kill so that the victim will hardly feel a thing. With a sharp knife, it's fairly easy to sever both the large blood vessels in the neck, causing the animal to lose consciousness instantly. The other tributes aren't animals, but how different could it be, really?

Whatever I set my mind to I can accomplish. With determination, I can win these Games. I swallow hard and try not to think to much about it.

Which, of course, is impossible.

But I will survive.

* * *

 **Phoenix Hemlock, 18**

 **District 7 Male**

* * *

Quivering.

With excitement.

Last night after the interviews Atalanta and Mercury, the leaders of the career pack, asked me to join. I'd been hoping for a long while to get an alliance I could poison one by one. If I were with the careers, we could hunt the others while I slowly decimated the pack from within. With a little luck and skill, they'll never know what hit them.

After years of honing my killer instincts, I have no qualms over what is to come. Even the careers have never truly put their skills to use. Perhaps my parents would not approve of my actions, but I do not care. If they didn't approve, then they shouldn't have died.

The Gamemakers will never let me win. I know that. I have tried to avoid thinking about it.

They wanted me to volunteer because I was a criminal. By all accounts a psychopath, and I would make the Games more interesting. Perhaps it's true, but I don't care. I can't care. My entire life has been about survival and I will not change that now. Emmett McLean, my foolish panicking district partner will die. The careers will all die. The other tributes will die.

Perhaps I cannot beat the Gamemakers, but I'm darn well going to give it my best shot.

I have outsmarted Capitol minions before and I can and will do it again. Imagining the comfortable feeling of an axe haft between my hands, I smile. This is my element.

I will survive.

* * *

 **Liam Cox, 14**

 **District 12 Male**

* * *

I know I can beat this game.

The hovercraft windows black out, and I know we are nearing the arena. The engines begin to slow and my stomach drops as our altitude lowers.

Fear has not taken me, just as no other emotion has ever controlled me in my life. I look around the hovercraft to the wide-eyed face of the District 5 girl, hear the sobs of Cotton from Eight, the determination in the eyes of the deaf girl from Nine. I have a power that none of them have, and I will use my indifference as a strength.

All the same, I wonder what it would be like to get so upset - or so happy. Have I missed an integral part of my life?

People have called me many things. Stony-faced. Rude. Enigmatic. Curious.

Some of these things are positive, some negative. The girls seemed to like me, but perhaps that was just because I pretended to like them. For the first time I feel manipulative and cruel. I wonder if Mabel, my latest beau, misses me. She was my sweetshop sweetheart. Used to share the candy her father made with me. Perhaps I only said I loved her so that she would love me.

Was it a lie? I wanted her to love me.

I push the thoughts out of my head. Right now, my most pressing need is to make a plan. Strategize. I have already decided against Haymitch's wishes that I will go into the bloodbath. Haymitch is just a broken down drunk anyway. Besides, I'd rather die quickly to a career than starve to death from lack of supplies, which is currently my alternative.

I will survive.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

The hovercraft lands and Tabatha drags me off to prepare me for launch. As usual she makes no attempt to communicate with me, but I do not mind. Right now, talking would only make me more nervous.

I have my strategy prepared and ready. Depending on whether the arena environment appears to be rich in things I can use, I will take things only from the edge of the cornucopia or not at all. I will get in and out fast, and not stay to see what happens. Then I will run until I find an elevated or open place that I can see around me from. That way, I'll be able to see someone coming rather than hear them.

It's a frightening prospect, being hunted but those I cannot hear, but I know that I can do this. I will fight hard, and prove that whatever else I may be I am no quitter.

We rode in the hovercraft in only robes, with our underclothing underneath, and now Tabatha begins to untie my robe as we reach the room where I will launch from. I push her hands away, and by myself pull on the clothing I will be wearing into the arena. The clothes are encouraging, giving me clues as to what sort of environment I may face.

First is a dark grey turtleneck and thick green socks. Dark brown cargo pants and and a forest green rain poncho, my district number painted on the back, tell me that the arena will most likely be natural. Wet, probably somewhat cold. The poncho is lined with fleece, and I can already think of a million original ways to use it.

Finally there are tall brown leather boots, with hard toes and soft uppers, and springy soles that grip well. They come almost so my knees, and my pants tuck neatly into the tops. There is also a black webbed belt and I buckle it firmly around my waist.

Tabatha gestures to a table that holds a bowl of broth and a glass of milk, and I eat even though I am not particularly hungry. I know that I can keep it down, and also that food may be scarce. Every bit of nourishment and knowledge I can get before I enter the arena will help.

A vibration, along with the frantic gestures of Tabatha tell me that it has been announced that the tributes must enter the launch tubes. Setting down my bowl and spoon, I step inside the tube and hike up my poncho, holding it securely in my left hand. This way I will not get tangled up when it is time to run. Leaning slightly forward, careful to keep my balance, I raise my head and take a deep breath as the tube lifts me into the arena...

 _I will survive._

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

A slight wind ruffles my hair, carrying mist. It is foggy, and takes my eyes a moment to get my bearings. My legs shake uncontrollably, and I have to fight to keep from stumbling off my platform.

Looking down between my feet, I see muddy water and plants, just as the scent of rotting weeds hits my nose. Looking around again, my mouth open, I see that we tributes are in a circle around the cornucopia, in the middle of a large oval pond, or small lake. Thick undergrowth lines the bank, and cattails and weeds choke the shallower parts. Tall trees, mostly evergreens but with a few deciduous ones like alders mixed in stretch as far as the eye can see. The sky is gray and overcast, and the air, while not cold, carries a chill.

 _I can't swim!_

The thought strikes me with panic. I will be trapped on my pedestal, unable to escape! Phoenix will come and kill me...

I look and see that he is about a quarter of the circle away from me. His eyes are trained on the cornucopia.

10...9...8...

In my hurry to survey the arena, I missed most of the countdown. The Games have nearly begun. Should I run for the cornucopia? For the woods? Grab a backpack and flee?

As I hesitate, Phoenix turns his eyes on me and appears to start forward.

Startled, and already off balance from fear, I jerk away from his motion. For a long moment I teeter on the edge of my pedestal and my heart leaps into my mouth, before I topple over the edge and icy water rushes into my nose and mouth, closing over my head...

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **Les Adorables - Capri, Cotton, Zita - Pixie?**

 **Determination - Leon, Alabaster**

 **Have Courage & Be Kind - Byron, Hunter**

 **Careers - Atalanta, Caspar, Eleanor, Mercury, Cyma, Enzo, Phoenix**

 _ **Who will die in the bloodbath?**_

 _ **Who will survive?**_

 _ **What would your strategy be?**_

 **I'm going to take my time making the bloodbath actually work, so you guys get to suffer until most likely Monday or Tuesday. It'll be great though, I promise! I'm excited but kind of terrified...next chapter I'll be killing tributes...**


	29. Survival and Oblivion - Day 1 Bloodbath

**Here it is. The culmination of all my efforts thus far. Sorry it was a bit of time in the making, but I was having trouble turning the various events and POVS into an actual narrative, plus it was hard to convey the fast-paced-ness of melee combat but take time to describe events at the same time. thank you all for your patience, and I hope you feel it's paid off.**

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

Sinking down, unable to breathe or see, I thrash and fight against the water. My legs and arms tangle among water weeds. I will be trapped beneath the ripples and drown!

Forcing my eyes open, I see that I am in a fact only a foot beneath the surface. Shoving down hard, my feet sink into muddy bottom and with a push I claw my way to the top.

My pedestal is a few feet to my right, and dead ahead is the cornucopia. Most of the other tributes are already in the water, splashing their way toward it. I see the girl from Three swimming, and know the water must be about five feet deep. Dashing mud from my eyes I start forward, shaking with the rush of adrenaline pounding through my veins. I must get in and out fast, before the killing starts.

Fighting the deep water is hard, but I manage to reach the cornucopia only a few seconds late. I drag myself up onto the muddy ledge that surrounds it.

The inside is mostly bare, with the majority of the supplies piled around the edges. Even weapons hang on the outside, but inside is where the more precious items are. Food, shelter, they are outside, but along the inner walls I see backpacks, tools, cooking utensils. To get the luxuries of the Games, we must risk everything.

Taking a deep breath I charge inside, running toward a coil of thick rope on the wall. Feet pound past me, but I keep my eyes on the prize and sling the rope over my shoulder, snatching up a bag of nails in my other hand. There is a scream outside and I run for the exit. I cannot waste another minute with the careers arrived. Perhaps my pickings are slim in comparison to the risks I have taken, but I will not wait to find out.

Whirling, I dash for the exit. I have just reached the comparative light outside the cornucopia when I come face to face with my worst nightmare.

Phoenix looks frightened, but as I scream and lurch away he grins, swinging a backpack up and into the side of my head. My retreat becomes a fall and, seeing stars, I tumble backward with a clatter over a bin of pots and pans. Nails fly as my bag tears open and leaves my hand. I scramble after it, expecting to be killed at any moment. When no stroke of doom falls I don't question it.

I simply grasp my nails tightly and flee into the water as fast as my legs can carry me. There is another scream, but it is far behind me and I forge ahead, lunging from the water and running into the woods. The ground is solid and reassuring as I rush in amongst the trees, leaping over branches and logs. Once the sounds of fighting have faded into the distance, I fling myself under the drooping branches of a young cedar tree, pull my wet poncho around me, bury my face in the gritty moss and sob.

I am alive.

* * *

 **Phoenix Hemlock, 18**

 **District 7 Male**

* * *

When the gong sounds I sprint forward without hesitation, ready to prove myself to my trained alliance. The old bullet wound in my leg has ceased to bother me, and I charge through the cold water toward the cornucopia. Being one of the tallest tributes I reach it quickly, when the sound of a wet impact has me turn, ready to defend myself.

The boy from Twelve rocks on the ground, clutching his bleeding stomach, as the boy from Five cuts his backpack straps with a bloodstained sword. Turning to enter the cornucopia, I am brought around again by a high-pitched shriek.

Atalanta is pulling her spear from the still-twitching corpse of the girl from District 3, her lips drawn back and her eyes bright. Her black braid swings as she looks around, seeking another kill.

All at once my knees turn to water. I have killed, but this melee of blood and death is something new. The careers are ruthless. Atalanta would not hesitate to kill me. They cannot be trusted any more than I can, and I will live longer without them.

But I can't desert without a parting gift.

Racing into the cornucopia, I tear the chain and bottle from my neck and grasp a large bin of beans. Taking off the lid and holding the bin against the cornucopia, I smash the vial of poison against the wall and drop it and it's contents into the bin. Slamming the lid back down, I run back out of the cornucopia. There are shards of glass sticking in my skin but I hardly feel them.

I snatch a backpack and hatchet and get ready to run.

Suddenly Emmett is in front of me, wide eyed and staring. She screams and jerks away, and without a second thought I swing my backpack hard against the side of her head. She goes down hard, supplies flying, and I raise my hatchet for a killing stroke.

Then Eleanor stops to watch, a knife in each hand, and I abandon Emmett. With Eleanor here, I will never be able to leave. She must not be here to stop me. I can hunt Emmett later.

Whirling, I swing my hatchet around.

It lands hard in her left thigh muscle and her face contorts with shock. Expecting her to scream and fall to the ground, I am surprised as a look of fury comes into her eyes and she lunges for me. I bring my hatchet up, trying to block her stroke, but I know that I am already to late.

Even though I am braced for impact, nothing can prepare me for the blinding pain as her knife stabs hard into my gut. Staggering, there is no time for me to recover before she brings her right leg thudding against me, shoving me backward and tearing the knife free. Her weight transfers to her injured leg and she falls backward. Pressing the slim advantage, I crawl toward her to strike again, but my reactions are slow. Baring her teeth, she stabs viciously into my chest.

All sound cuts off as I roll onto my back, and her knife comes down again. Enzo's sword appears too, but I can't feel them.

I slide away into darkness as blood chokes any words that try to come.

* * *

 **Liam Cox, 14**

 **District 12 Male**

* * *

The ledge by the cornucopia is slippery as I heave myself from the water and lunge for the weapon rack on the wall. Every nerve in my body is stretched to breaking, and I have never felt more focused and aware.

Wyatt is only a moment behind as I grasp the sword, tearing it from the wall and it's sheath. There are a few small backpacks mixed up with the larger bales and boxes outside the cornucopia; the larger backpacks all are inside. A small one will have to do.

I run forward, my sword held in front of me. It is heavy, and I struggle to keep it parallel with the ground. Stooping, I swing a backpack on and turn to run. I have overestimated my strength though, and in the swift turn my sword dips and catches in the mud. Lurching, I fall and wrench my wrist, dropping the sword. The careers have arrived, and there is no time to stoop and recover it. I take a step toward the water, but something catches me and holds me in place.

I attempt to pull away, but the movement sends an explosion of pain shooting through my chest. Looking down, I see a foot of steel protruding from beneath my ribs.

The next thing I know I am on the ground in the mud, the sword gone. My vision is hazy, but the pain is real and immediate. Biting down on my hand to distract myself, I sob with fear and helplessness. My legs will not work, they only move weakly in the mud.

The straps across my back tug and the backpack is lifted away. A pair of feet and legs rush past, my backpack dangling from one hand, and my sword, now coated with blood, from the the other. As the figure enters the water, I see that it is Wyatt.

This should not have happened. I beat the careers to the weapons. I should be safe, speeding off into the water.

But District 5 has drawn the first blood of these Games.

More is being spilled as I lie, tense and slowly dragging myself toward the cornucopia. Perhaps I can hide...I don't know what it will accomplish. But I must get away. Thin and distant, a girl's high-pitched scream sounds. Choking, sobbing, I continue to move painfully forward.

A great weight presses on my back, and then I am struck hard between the shoulders. Fire overwhelms me, and I cannot even sob, my lungs refuse to move.

Forgive me Mabel. I wanted you to love me. I think that I loved you.

And I am afraid.

* * *

 **Cotton Ombre, 13**

 **District 8 Male**

* * *

The water is almost up to my eyes and keeps splashing my face and making me splutter as I head for the cornucopia. To my left I see Capri moving in the same direction, and Pixie has almost reached the side. Zita is nowhere to be seen. If the other members of my alliance are risking their lives to get supplies, I have no right to do any less than that.

I ought to contribute something to the alliance.

Shivering, my poncho sticking to me and tangling as I stand, I pull myself onto the wet ledge before the mouth of the horn. The larger pile of supplies is to my left, the small one to my right, and straight ahead of me gleams the throat of the horn. Ready to drink the blood of the tributes.

Someone gives a choking cry and I see Liam lying by the foot of the left pile, clutching his stomach. His hands are smeared red and brown with blood and mud. He gives another agonized sob, dragging himself forward, and my stomach heaves.

I drop to my hands and knees, emptying my breakfast in the mud, tears running down my face.

"Run Cotton!"

I look up.

Pixie is standing on top of the horn, a knife in one hand and a small bag in the other. Her bangs are plastered to her face, and beneath them her eyes stare wide and terrified past me. Starting forward she bounds down the cornucopia, waving her arm and yells again.

"Cotton, _run!_ "

Galvanized into action by her commanding tone, I panic and whirl, running straight onto the sword of the boy from One.

I drop unable to summon even a moan. Being stabbed should hurt, but I can't feel or hear anything. Breath catching in my throat, my eyes simply darken and I feel as though I float away. Ty, I miss you...

But it doesn't hurt.

* * *

 **Wyatt Foster, 15**

 **District 5 Male**

* * *

I tear my eyes away from Liam's shocked face, blood running over his chin, and slice through the straps of his backpack. Hoisting it in my hand, I jump into the water and make for the shore.

The backpack in my hand feels tainted, but I need it to survive.

The cold mud sucks at my legs as I trudge through the water. My face is wet, but I tell myself it is only the mist. There really isn't much point in any of this. I may be alive now, but it's certain not to last.

So why did I kill that boy?

Perhaps he wasn't dead, but I saw his face and heard the sounds he made. That's almost worse. He'll bleed out in the mud. I'm just as bad as any of the careers. Killing is supposed to be their job, but I have the first kill of the 54th Hunger Games.

The bloodied sword in my hand and the fire in my veins tell me that I have not really given up. Perhaps it isn't possible, for the human mind to give in to death. Either way, it took only five minutes for me to become a killer.

Kill or be killed.

The story of Panem.

The backpack is soaked, and looking back I see that I've barely come twenty feet. My ankle tangles in the pond weeds and, angry, I jerk it free.

I'm no weakling! I can win this. All it takes is grit and determination!

And the loss of one's soul.

I don't really believe that! Faster Wyatt, get away from here, you're imagining things! I adjust my grip on the handle of my sword and stomp ahead. Who cares if stomping just makes me go slower, the mud grabbing at my boots. This whole thing is...

My head snaps backward and a quick pressure across my throat. My chest covers in warmth and something sucks wetly. The water is on me, though I didn't mean to fall! I can't see! What's happening! I know my eyes are open.

But the lights are out.

My games are over.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

The gong rings and I don't think, I just run. All the tension brimming in me all morning is finally released as I sprint for the trees. The water is cold and my poncho tangles around my legs. I am not going near the cornucopia. I cannot fight!

I want to be far away before the screaming starts. Tears sting my eyes along with the muddy water. Something grabs my ankle and I fall, scream cut off in a gurgle as my face sinks under. thrashing, kicking, I know that I must escape the grip. Lungs screaming for air I can't help but take a sucking, panicked breath and my throat fills. Something snaps and my head breaks the surface.

Choking and retching, I flounder forward. An awful choking yell cuts the air, and a moment later a high-pitched shriek. Someone continues to sob, and somebody throws up.

Bile stings my own throat.

To my right Wyatt appears, moving slowly, his head down. Blood washes off his sword and I jerk violently toward the shore. Will he kill me?

Mercury is suddenly there, leaping onto him, dragging his head back, and cutting his throat. The water churns red as the District 2 boy calmly takes Wyatt's backpack and heads back toward the cornucopia, leaving Wyatt floating and spasming.

A sob wrenches my throat, and dropping the backpack on the wet ledge, Mercury turns back, his eyes locked with mine.

Running now, falling, tripping, the water getting shallower, I plunge through a thicket of water lilies. The water is only up to my waist, and I run faster and faster, sobbing, crying. I don't want to die! He can't catch me! I did everything right! I didn't go into the bloodbath!

I go down suddenly, and this time can't come back up. Looking around, I see that my hands are buried to the elbows in oozing mud, my face only inches away from the surface. the stink of rotting pond weeds nearly chokes me.

Wrenching my hands free I sit up and tug desperately, trying to pull my legs from the thick mud. They only sink deeper.

"No, no, no, _no! No!_ Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" I scream. "Go away!"

I can't stop as I keep kicking, my heart pounding so hard I expect my chest to burst any minute. I grasp my calf with my hands and try to pull my leg free that way, but it won't come. My hands slide right off the mud slick fabric, and they're shaking so hard I have no strength. Wrenching around I throw myself at the shore, trying to grab on to the branches of a willow only a few feet away. My joints burn and groan with the effort as I shut my eyes and strain. Mercury will kill me. I will die, here, in the mud, sink down, drown, bleed to death...

My hand touches.

Opening my eyes, I see Danny, his wide eyes determined and grabbing my hand in both of his. A sword and a bag lie on the bank, and a backpack is on his back. He has waded a short way into the mud, and is staring past me. His eyes are frightened and I try to look behind me. Mercury is there! He'll kill me. That's why Danny's looking there, he's on us!

I can't see, and I start to thrash again, desperate to see how close the career boy is.

"Don't look, Zita, just start pushing toward me."

He doesn't sound panicked, though his voices quakes, just determined.

"Come on, don't look back. We have time, but you need to help me out."

I start thrashing my legs with renewed vigor as Danny pulls but then he stops, glancing behind me again. This time I don't try to look, just keep moving.

"You can't thrash. Thrust your legs down and you'll hit bottom eventually. Then push."

He's speaking fast, but I understand. If he can be calm, then so can I. I shove my legs down, and try to stand upright. The mud is slightly above my knees when I hit bottom and begin to shove forward. Danny takes me by both wrists and pulls back. The mud makes horrid sucking, oozing noises, but my legs pull free and I hit gravel.

Immediately I fall, shaking too hard to stand.

Danny grabs my upper arm and pulls me to my feet, urgently but not unkindly. He picks up his sword and bag and drags me after him into the woods. After a moment, my legs being to cooperate as his certainty calms me.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I see Mercury standing, halfway between the cornucopia and the churned mud by the shore. He looks furious, but he isn't pursuing. He wasn't even anywhere near me, but he would have been.

I steal a glance at Danny's face.

His eyes are staring straight ahead as he jogs forward. I match his pace, and something like wonder must come into my eyes.

That boy just saved me by sheer will. He could have been killed. I could have pulled him into the mud, but he came back for me. We hardly even spoke during training, if ever, and he saved my life.

I have never seen someone be so brave.

* * *

 **Willi Dye, 12**

 **District 3 Female**

* * *

Setting my sights on the bow and arrow hanging just inside the cornucopia, I catapult myself into the water the moment the gong rings.

Water rushes into my mouth and I flounder madly. The other tributes are all tall enough to walk, but I have to swim! Kicking clumsily forward, I am fuming at the game makers. Curse their muddy arena! Would it have been too much to make a few inches shallower? At least I know how to swim...

Reaching the bow, I sling a silver quiver of arrows over my shoulder and nock one to the string. Taking aim at the girl from One, I pull the string back as far as I can. It has a heavy draw weight and I only make it about three-quarters of the way, but that should give the arrow enough velocity. The girl turns just as I am releasing and with reflexes like lightning, dives to the side. The arrow flashes past her and disappears into the murky water.

"Flipdoodly darn it," I exclaim, annoyed, setting another arrow on the string. I narrow my eyes. "I have you now..."

the girl snatches a spear from the rack and charges me, her black braid swinging. I gauge the distance carefully, knowing that if she is only a few feet away the arrow will hit her before she can duck.

But she was holding the spear near the head, and a moment before I release the string she slides her grip back and swats my bow to the side. The arrow arcs off and lands among the trees on the side, and the string smacks me painfully in the arm. I yelp, but the cry is cut off halfway as the girl slams her spear into my chest.

Tears spring to my eyes, and I can't get any air. One little cough is all I can muster.

Patrick lied to me.

These are no Games.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

The girl from Three shoots at Atalanta, distracting her attention just as I reach the horn. I thank God that she was there, but a moment later my thanks backfires as the girl is skewered on a spear.

Tearing my horrified eyes away, I bend down and grab a rolled up tarpaulin from beside the cornucopia, then a sack full of food. Swinging the sack onto my back and tucking the tarpaulin under my arm, I sprint back into the water and past my pedestal. Hunter and I agreed with nods and gestures during the countdown that we would meet at the north end of the pond, where the ground is rocky and looks driest. That way we'll be able to run right away.

As I dive into the water I see Caspar finish off the writhing boy from Twelve, and tears spring to my eyes. Two have died, and we have hardly even begun. Even Willi, while she seemed foolish and proud, was only twelve years old. Even the careers are hardly more than misguided children.

Reaching the dry ground at the end of the pond, I turn and stand shivering, waiting for Hunter. He is holding a small bag, and as I watch sprints to the mouth of the horn and grabs a pickaxe. In an agony of fear, I watch the District 7 male enter the horn a moment after.

Then I relax as Hunter reemerges and sprints past the fighting, diving into the water. I shout for him to hurry, then am distracted as the screaming girl from Five gets bogged down only yards away and Mercury turns toward us, leaving the body of the boy from Five.

I start forward to help the girl, but Hunter reaches me just as the boy from Three grasps her hand and begins talking to her. Mercury, tall and heavy as he is, is making poor progress and I can see that the two will most likely escape.

"Come on!" Hunter urges, and I tear my eyes away from the killing and follow him as he heads into the woods.

"Great find," I say, gesturing to the pickaxe. "But it was a huge risk."

Hunter smiles bashfully. "I know. I guess I got carried away."

I can see he's pleased with himself.

Shooting him a small smile, I slap him on the back and turn down a path. "C'mon. We survived, let's stay that way."

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

As the gong rings I lunge from my pedestal, sprinting toward the mound of supplies against the side of the cornucopia. The water is gritty and clammy, but the gamemakers were smart enough to make it no more than five feet deep, so that it's fair for everyone. If it was deeper, Four would have a huge advantage, since almost no other tributes can swim.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the pretty Six girl reach the slope and grab a small sack and several coils of rope or wire, then turn and head back for the woods.

My main priority is food, though some way of drying off would be nice.

At the top of the pile is a crate with bags of bread, apples, and other eatables spilling from it. I am panting for air as I scramble the few feet to the food and snatch a loaf of bread. There is a coil of rope hanging on a peg and I grab it too.

Another hand closes around it at the same time as mine and I tug to free it. Abruptly, the District 9 girl elbows me in the face and drives her shoulder into my midriff. I stagger backward, teeter, and careen off the edge. It is only a few feet to the ground, but as I try to catch myself my ankle twists on the shifting supplies. There is a tearing sensation. I pull myself to my feet and hobble into the water, then flounder clumsily toward the shore, still clutching my bread for dear life. Off to my left the boy from Five has his throat cut by Mercury.

I scramble past the sobbing, struggling girl from District 5 and lurch from the water and in among the thicket lining this part of the bank. Willow trees twist their many branches and trunks around, and the ground is still muddy. I limp forward, but my foot catches on a root and the throb turns to flaring, burning pain as I fall on my face.

I try to stand, but I can't make my ankle hold my weight.

Tears stain my face and my breath comes fast as I flop over one of the trunks and press myself flat on the muddy ground, my bread beneath me.

I am helpless and injured less than one hundred yards from the cornucopia, practically under the very noses of the careers.

Burying my head in my arms, I prepare for death.

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

Snatching a knife from the rack on the wall, I turn and get my bearings. The careers are climbing from the water at the front of the horn. I don't have much time.

I snatch up a small sack that might contain anything, but judging from the lumpy shape holds a variety of supplies. Then I grasp onto the projecting weave pattern of the cornucopia and clamber up, my hands and boots slipping on the slick wet surface. Someone is choking down below, and then I hear someone vomit. Looking down, I see cotton on his hands and knees, Caspar and Mercury heading right for him.

"Run Cotton!" I shout.

He looks at me, but shows no sign of running. His eyes are so wide I can see the whites. They are almost on him. I want to leave, get safely away, but after last night I can't just leave him. He is looking to me for guidance.

Slipping and sliding I run down the side of the cornucopia and jump to the ground, crouching to absorb the impact.

"Cotton, _run!"_

He whirls, and I shut my eyes. Caspar was right behind him. I can hear the grating sound and his gasp as the sword enters, and I whirl and run back toward the horn. There's nothing more I can do. He's done for. Staying will only get me killed.

The boy from District 9 blocks my way. Too late. I will still die.

He holds his spear in front of him in both hands and rams it into my midsection. Rolling, I realize I am still alive. In his terror, he never changed his grip and struck me with it like a quarterstaff. Still, I cannot breathe and in a moment he will realize his mistake and be upon me. I struggle to suck in, the air knocked from my lungs.

Uncurling, I scramble up with a coughing wheeze, and though I am dizzy, my lungs finally begin to work again and I scramble back over the horn and into the water. Shaking with terror and grief, I sprint out and into the woods. It is a long time before I stop running.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

I wasn't supposed to go into the bloodbath. Harvyst told me to pick from the edges and then run like the dickens. I was going to do it, too. It would have been my strategy all the way.

But there are no edges here. It's all or nothing.

Making my decision, I dive into the water and swim for the cornucopia. In District 11, there were reservoirs and streams and irrigation canals aplenty. We weren't supposed to swim in them, but tell that to Fawn and it meant that in a few days all four of us would be doing it.

I pull myself from the water and run into the cornucopia, swinging a small backpack onto my back. I could have taken a better one, but I'm not strong enough to carry anything much bigger.

Several screams reach me, but I don't stop to watch. I dash past the District 9 boy as he shoves Pixie to the ground and head for shore, walking not swimming with the heavy backpack. I reach the shore and look back. Several people are down, and many others are screaming. Everyone's moving so fast I can't read the numbers on their backs and we all look alike in our uniforms. The girl from Four draws back her arm and throws a knife at the boy from Nine as he gets into shallow water.

It strikes him between the neck and collarbone, but the angle was off and it pinwheels away without sticking. I can tell from his cry of pain and the blood on his poncho that it bit him some anyway.

I have an idea, and as he sprints out of the water I run forward. Crouching down on my hands and knees, I dig around among the pond weeds and come up with the knife. The District 4 girl returned to the fighting once it was clear she missed her target, and I run into the woods, holding my prize carefully.

I got lucky for sure.

* * *

 **Shahid Howe, 13**

 **District 11 Male**

* * *

I am at the back of the cornucopia, stuffing knives into my belt, when the screaming begins. First a choked cry, then a high-pitched shriek, more sobbing and whimpering. I move faster, stuffing a fifth knife, this one long and serrated like a pruning saw, into my belt. Smoothing my poncho back down, I grab the heaviest backpack I can carry and head for the exit. Perfect. I have everything I need.

I am almost to the exit, just behind a stack of boxes, when the light from the entrance is cut off. Enzo Garrix stands in the doorway, holding a long sword. His eyes narrow when he sees me and he charges.

Wildly, I duck behind the bales, knowing that I can only evade his strokes for so long but not prepared to give up. Why was I so greedy! I could have gotten out clean!

The District 7 male rushes past and for a moment I hold out the hope that Enzo will leave me and go after him, but I am not so lucky. I duck behind another box as his sword darts forward.

My breath sobs and I am shaking hard. This game of cat and mouse cannot last forever, and my backpack is getting heavier every second. I fumble beneath my poncho for a knife, but Enzo lunges again and I leap to the side. He knows his game.

He charges again, and I spring to the side, hitting metal. Looking wildly back and forth, I see that I am trapped. My back is against the wall of the cornucopia, and a kayak leaning against the wall keeps me from going the other way. One slow step at a time Enzo approaches me, and I slide along the wall. Once I reach the tail of the cornucopia there will be nowhere left to hide, and I will end.

I ought to make a run for it, try to get around him, but though my brain thinks the plan through it is committed only weakly and my legs will not cooperate. Just a few more feet and he'll have me.

The District 7 female comes and leaves.

Enzo takes no notice.

My back hits the rear wall and I press against it, shielding my face with my arm. This leaves my chest and stomach unprotected, but he will stab me no matter what and I don't want to see it coming. Quavering, I wait for the stroke of death.

It never comes.

There is a cry of rage and pain, a girl's voice, and Enzo whirls, sprinting for the end of the cornucopia. Not in the mood to question my break, I sprint after him and past him as he tears into Phoenix. The boy was attacking Ellie from Two, and as fellow careers and a man of honor he would naturally go to her aid. Shaking with relief, I make for the water.

Once I reach the woods, I turn back and take a last look. The District 9 male is limping off into the woods, assisted by the District 12 female. They have a backpack, and the girl is carrying several tins.

The District 5 female and Daniel from Three are vanishing into the woods at the north end of the pond. Several others scramble into the west woods. No one seems to be headed south, so I turn my face from the bloodbath and set out at a fast walk.

My legs are still shaking by how near death came to claiming me.

But I am not dead, I am very much alive. I have a large backpack and plenty of weapons.

Hitching the pack higher onto my shoulders and quickening my pace I smile. So far my start has been quite promising.

* * *

 **There it is. The bloodbath. It's probably fairly clear to you all who has died, but I will not be posting eulogies until the death recap for each day. This means that deaths may occur without it being confirmed, or known who it was, until a chapter or two later. I just like the way this works.**

 _ **So, what did you think?**_

 _ **Any surprises?**_

 _ **Who do you think died?**_

 _ **Who are you saddest about?**_

 _ **Who do you wish had died?**_

 _ **What supplies would you hope for in this sort of arena?**_

 ** _Were the deaths realistic?_**

 ** _Did the chapter have a decent narrative flow?_**

 **Thank you all for the feedback, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Hopefully they'll be enthusiastic :) Updates will probably occur somewhere between every two days and every week, depending on my schedule. If there's going to be any serious gaps, I'll let you know, so you don't think I died or something :)**


	30. Plots and Plans - Day 1 Afternoon

**Let's see the rest of the arena! And what might be in some of our tribute's backpacks...**

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

The boy from Seven goes still, and I transfer my sword to my left hand, offering my right to help Eleanor to her feet. Her face is creased in pain as she squats, holding her bloody knives, beside his body. Blood seeps from the deep wound in her thigh. It doesn't look dangerous yet, but any wound can be if left untreated. There are enough injuries on the fishing boats that, while I'm no doctor, I know that much.

"Come on, Ellie," I say. "We need to get you out of the fight."

I offer my hand again, but she shakes her head defiantly. "I'm _fine_." She tries to stand, but her left leg gives out. I reach down, but she slaps my hand away.

Gritting her teeth, she staggers to her feet and stumbles toward the cornucopia. I see the District 11 boy speeding off into the water and curse mentally. I had to help Eleanor, but having him get away was a real stroke of bad luck. He's got some good supplies too.

Following her in, I reach her just as she slumps agains the wall, dropping her knives and pressing both hands over the gaping wound. She sits back, head hanging tiredly. Outside, the sounds of fighting continue. I have to resist the urge to rush out, but somehow I manage. Eleanor needs me here, whether she likes it or not.

Sighing, I walk to the back wall and grab a first aid kit. Ellie watches me lethargically, and when I kneel down beside her she gives a few token protests before submitting. I help her get her poncho off, then cut through the fabric of her pants near the hip. Her face turns red, and she flinches every time I touch her skin. I feel bad. Nobody likes being hurt and helpless, especially not a career.

There is a bottle of disinfectant, and since the water outside looks less than savory and is currently a war zone, I use the disinfectant to cleanse the wound. She whimpers, and as the liquid foams along her gash I know it must sting. I underestimated her during training. Her focus on survival, as well as her introverted, almost disdainful treatment of the rest of us made me write her off as under-skilled and overconfident. Now, knowing the pain she must feel as I rub antibiotic ointment into the wound, place a pad of gauze over the top, and roll an entire bandage tightly around it, I feel nothing but respect.

The last sounds of combat die away outside, and the other careers troop one by one inside the cornucopia. Cyma and Atalanta look furious and are as soaked as the rest of us, Mercury and Caspar just seem smug.

Shaking water from her hair and getting under control, Atalanta turns toward us.

"Phoenix turned traitor," I say. "He struck Ellie but she kept fighting and paid him. He won't bother us again."

Mercury nods, a slow smile spreading over his face. "Yeah, I saw him outside."

"Is she going to be alright?" Atalanta asks.

"I'll be okay," Ellie says, but her voice is strained.

"She'll be fine," I confirm. "But she needs some rest. When you guys go out hunting someone should stay with her."

"Seems like you've got the situation under control, how about you stay?" Atalanta asks.

"Sure," I tell her. I expected her to ask that. After all, she can tell that I know what I'm doing. I'm annoyed that I will miss the hunt, but a few hours to unwind and process where we are and what there is to do will not be unwelcome.

"We should get her cleaned up and go over our supplies before we head out," Atalanta begins, striding across and surveying what we have. Outside, there is a deep boom, then another, and another, more, until a total of five. The bloodbath is officially over. Five tributes are dead. Caspar interrupts Atalanta's words.

"Seriously? Only _five_!?"

"Well, with Ellie down toward the beginning, me out checking in on her, plus the difficult terrain and the two separate piles? I'd say it was to be expected. Besides, there'll just be more to hunt."

Cyma nods in response, and I'm glad to see my words make sense to someone. "Plus Atalanta colliding with me," she snorts, shooting a half-glare at the District 1 girl.

"Hey, I couldn't see you in the mist and the water okay?" Atalanta spits back at her.

"I know, I know, calm down. Still though, you lost me a kill. If we hadn't fallen I would have caught the Nine boy easy. Finished him off before he could reach the woods."

"Stop arguing," Mercury orders, rolling his eyes. "The kid's bleeding, right?"

Cyma nods confirmation. "My knife glanced off his shoulder blade."

"Then he'll be easy to track. Caspar, you stay with Eleanor and Enzo and hold down the fort. Atalanta, Cyma and I will take the first hunt."

Caspar opens his mouth in protest, but Cyma plays him just right, appealing to his self-importance. "What Mercury's saying makes sense. I mean, if Ellie's down and Enzo's taking care of her, there has to be someone strong staying behind in case of emergency."

Taking the flattery, Caspar backs down. "Alright. But I'm hunting tonight, or so help me..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he's only half joking. The Games have started, and we all know that this alliance can only last so long. Sooner or later it'll start cracking, and eventually explode. Then most of us will die.

The others go off to count the supplies, and I look for a water purifier. Sure enough, there's a machine with filtration and chlorine built right in. I fill a water bottle with the mucky pond water, then pour it into the machine. After a few minutes, the tank on the side begins to fill. Pushing down the dispenser, I fill a second water bottle full and drink deeply, then refill it and carry it to Eleanor. She accepts it wordlessly, still steaming over what she must see as a failure.

Using wood from a bag of fuel, Cyma gets a fire going, then opens a bale of fresh clothes and heads around the back of the cornucopia with Atalanta to change. When she comes back, Mercury, Caspar, and I do the same. While we are gone, Cyma helps Ellie into dry clothes. They are all sitting around the fire and sipping hot chocolate when we return.

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

The bodies that littered the water and ledges are gone, and the sun has come out from behind the clouds. Birds twitter in the trees, and the mist is beginning to burn off. For the first time, I can clearly see the edges of the pond, and get an idea of the rest of the arena.

Earlier, I knew that there was forest, but I assumed it must all be swampy. Those arenas tend to be a hit, and there hasn't been one in nearly two decades. However, I see now that my original assumption was wrong. The water ends clearly at the tree line, and turns to forest. We are not in a swamp, the game makers just happened to decide to start us in the middle of a pond. It certainly made things interesting, what with the mud and water plants. None of the other tributes had the opportunity of fresh uniforms, and even a few jackets, that we have. They must be miserable right now. That's probably why the game makers are bringing the sun out.

I sip my mug of hot chocolate, letting my feet, bare while my boots dry by the fire, dangle in the cool pond water. The boys come back from changing, and Eleanor limps over to join us by the fire.

Standing, I pour her a mug of hot chocolate, which she accepts gratefully, sitting down on a bale of cooking utensils.

It seems as though I am leading the career pack. No one stepped in immediately, and while they haven't granted me explicit control, no one resisted me giving the orders. It is a position of intense responsibility and heightened risk.

Mercury and Caspar seem to have settled down with actual tributes to kill, but I'll have to keep an eye on them.

Tossing back the last dregs of my drink, I step forward and test my boots. They have dried, along with my socks, and I order Mercury and Cyma to arms.

"Try and bring some of the supplies inside the cornucopia while we're gone," I tell those that are staying. "It'll make it easier to guard them at night, just posting one person at the front. Setting out sleeping bags and making dinner wouldn't hurt us either."

I enjoy it as Enzo mock salutes me, telling me he knows I'm throwing my weight around but accepting it good-naturedly. Caspar looks angry, but suppresses it for the moment.

Emptying one of the quivers of arrows, I stick the three short spears into it and sling it over my shoulder. Then I take the last and longest one into my hand, and move us out, telling the others we'll be back at sundown for supper and to send out the night hunters.

Then, Cyma guiding us, we climb into the canoe and paddle to the shore. How considerate of the game makers. I won't be getting my feet wet again.

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

Leon is hurting.

The way he keeps his eyes fixed dead ahead, like if he looks at the ground he'll end up there. The way every movement is precise.

I know that my ally is in trouble, and already my brain is spinning with ideas and stratagems that disgust me. I can't believe some of the things I think, and yet I know that at some point I will put them into action. Already my brain has hatched and latched onto a plan to put him out of the way easily, without him ever suspecting me. The fact that I'm thinking it repulses me, but despite my brain's token resistance I know that I will do it.

I want to survive.

And yet, this is much, much worse than blackmailing an errand-girl over a stolen ribbon. This is killing someone. Deliberately sentencing an ally, that trusts me, to a slow and certain death.

It doesn't stop me. I must do this, for my own sake.

 _But what about his sake?_

It's the Hunger Games, he doesn't have one.

Surprised by my own audacity, I decide to act now. Screwing my courage to the sticking place, I call a halt, taking a deep breath.

"Leon, we can't keep going without having a look at that shoulder. We should see what's in your backpack, too. I can't hear the fighting anymore, and with all the underbrush around I'm sure it's safe."

He looks supremely relieved as he sits down on a fallen log, swinging his backpack off and onto the ground beside him. He yelps a little as it scrapes over his injured shoulder.

"I have to get your poncho off so I can see what I'm doing." I'm surprised by how easily the kind note comes into my voice when I know what I'm about to do.

Opening the backpack, I find with relief that there is a fairly sizable first aid kit, carrying small tubes of disinfectant ointment and sprays, as well as bandages, several needles, and surgical thread. Taking a deep breath, I set out the needle, thread, and a bandage, leaving the disinfectant in the box. For a moment I hold my breath, but Leon obviously doesn't know much about first aid and doesn't seem to notice the implications of my actions. In fact, he can't seem to look away from the needle, which he eyes apprehensively.

"You're not going to sew me up, are you?"

Using my best regretful-but-caring voice, I explain to him: "I have to. It'll make the cut heal faster, and it'll keep germs from getting deep inside and infecting it." Well, it _would,_ but...

"Okay."

He grits his teeth and carefully takes off his shirt, trying not to hurt himself. I see that the girl's knife struck just at the top of his shoulder blade and was deflected off the bone, leaving him with a deep cut above the shoulder and a shallow slash upwards that ends at the base of his neck. Activating phase one of my plan, I take his soaked shirt and wring the water onto a piece of gauze. "I have to clean it first," I explain.

He submits himself heroically to my ministrations as I wipe away the blood. If he knew the implications of cleaning a wound with pond water...

I push the thought away. Survival, Alabaster. It's a nasty game.

Finished, I take up the needle and thread it carefully. Leon stops trying to watch, no doubt not wanting to see me work. His hands are clenching and unclenching in anticipation of the pain, as he is determined to let me do what must be done. Keeping watch on him out the corner of my eye, I spit on the needle and run more saliva along the thread.

Since saliva comes from mouths, you might think it would be clean, but it really isn't, or so the trainers told me. They expressly warned me while doing first aid that saliva is _not_ an appropriate liquid to cleanse wounds with, and that the numerous bacteria in the mouth will only result in infection. At the time I was learning in good faith, and the information was helpful. After all, myself or one of my allies might be injured, and I never would have known not to use spit. Turns out, I'm using it anyway.

On purpose.

And it makes me sick.

Tying a knot at the end of the thread, I begin stitching, neat and even the way I did the dresses at home. Leon shuts his eyes, but after a few pricks he relaxes. It must not be as bad as he expected.

Finishing, I tie another knot and put the needle back in the first aid kit. Then we go through the rest of the bag.

In addition to the tin of matches and tin of biscuits I picked up, the backpack holds a host of treasures. There is a flashlight, more matches, a sleeping bag, a large sheet that appears to be waterproof, a canteen of water, a packet of powdered milk and another of chocolate powder, a bottle of chlorine tablets, three bars, five cans of various foods, and several packets of dehydrated soup mixes or something. There's enough food to survive for a week at a pinch, and by that time I should be on my own...

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

My lips press tightly together as my legs pump up and down, up and down. Zita and I are safely out of the bloodbath, but the terror refuses to leave me. Mecury was so close behind us. Had he been a knife thrower, we'd have been dead. I can't even look at the girl by my side.

There was no way I could let her be killed, but I almost died! It's like I can't breath normally even though we're in the clear. Finally, I can't take it another second and am forced to call a halt. I am sweating profusely, but my face still feels cold. I still can't catch my breath. My clothes drip, and though the sun is shining brightly through a gap in the trees I shiver. There's a slight buzzing in my ears, and I sit down on a rock and bend forward, my head hanging between my knees. My breathing still won't steady.

Zita is watching me shyly, looking like she's embarrassed. I'm sure she must know what I risked to go back for her. I want to tell her it was my pleasure, but...well, let's just say it wasn't.

My stomach churns at the memory of the fear. I could see Mercury coming closer and closer, his knife glinting. Zita was panicking, almost pulled me into the mud. Ugh.

The buzzing is louder now, and then there's a dim pain in my head. I can't see, but a moment later the world swims back into focus. Zita is shaking me, her eyes wide and terrified. Dizzily, I sit up. My lips feel thick and I taste blood, then spit out a mouthful of dirt and moss. Did I faint? Obviously I fell.

"What happened?" I say, but my own voice is distant behind the ringing in my ears.

Zita's lips are moving, but I can't hear. My stomach heaves, and falling onto my hands and knees, I vomit all over my sword. Wiping a shaking hand across my damp forehead, I struggle to sit upright again and remain that way. Zita is nearly hysteric, shaking me and shouting. I blink hard, scrunching my forehead, and when I open my eyes I feel just a bit more focused. I can hear again, and try once more to speak.

"I'm alright, I'm alright."

"Dany, what's happening! Are you alright?!"

"I'm fine," I repeat. Already I feel more sure of myself, less rocky. I'm conscious enough to register discomfort from the bile in my throat and nose. "I'm okay."

I sit back tiredly, leaning against the rock that was my seat. Wiping my soiled hands on the moss beside me, I then shove the damp hair off of my face and strip off my poncho. Now that I can think a little, I have some idea of what happened.

This is what I felt like after the peacekeepers beat me for defending Eb's dog. The reason I was hazy was because they'd hit me in the head, but after I got home I had something of a similar reaction. Couldn't catch my breath, couldn't sit still, was cold and sweaty at the same time. Shock, my mother said it was. Something that happens when you go through something traumatic. I wasn't injured in the bloodbath, but I suppose the strain of having Mercury bearing down on me, knowing that I might have just laid down my life...

Nope. I won't think about it again. I'm alive and safe and so is Zita. I didn't die for her, because we're both alive.

Standing shakily, I open the backpack and pull out a water bottle. Zita wants me to drink it all, but I insist we share. She goes first, so I can rinse my soiled mouth out without making the water nasty. After several sips, I feel ready to go on. We'll find a place to camp, and go through the rest of the pack. I want to get as far away from the careers as possible first. Zita volunteers to carry the backpack, and though it feels wrong, I let her. I really don't feel up to it.

We move off into the woods, talking a little, letting our relief at being alive come through. She even takes off her poncho as the sun comes out, filtering through the tall trees above our heads. There are tall ones where the branches don't start until near the top, and that have leaves instead of needles. A few have grayish bark and are shorter and gnarled with normal leaves. A few are very, very tall, with strips of red bark and something in between needles and leaves. The sun and the birds and the smell of the trees begin to brighten me up. I appreciate every moment of being alive.

Looking at Zita playfully, I fling my foot out and begging to skip, bursting into a silly song that Ebony liked. It's an old tune about a farmer and his dog, but we modified it so that it was about her and Sable.

 _A girl had a dog in District 3  
And her name was Sa-ble  
S-A-B-L-E  
S-A-B-L-E  
S-A-B-L-E  
And Sable was her name-o!_

The original song rhymes, and this version doesn't, but Eb and I never cared. It feels strange to be singing it now, with another girl in a totally different part of the country.

I miss Eb so much it hurts.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

Only Shahid headed south, and as I feel comparatively safe from him, that's where I went too. I took off my poncho right away and shoved it in my backpack so I could run faster, and stuck my knife through my belt so that if I tripped and fell I wouldn't stab myself. That would be an awfully dumb way to lose the Hunger Games.

It's been hours of alternately running and walking, and my clothes are almost dry. Night is starting to fall, and the birds are quieting down. I start looking for a decent tree, but before I find one to my liking, a breeze starts to blow and a strange smell hangs in the air. It doesn't seem unwholesome, so I keep going, curiosity piqued. The trees suddenly end, and about fifty feet away at the end of a stretch of pebbles is what can only be the sea.

It is beautiful, smelling strange and sharp and free. The waves roll, gray and blue, then end where the land curves around. In between the two arms of land, fog blocks my sight. After admiring the beauty for a long time, I make my way back to the tree line and empty my backpack on the sand. There is a bottle of chlorine tablets, an empty water bottle, two cans of soup, and a fleecy blanket. I lay the blanket out on the sand, take off my shoes and socks, and lay them with my poncho to dry.

I open a can of soup, and slurp it cold, picking out the chunks with my fingers. After half of it is gone, I rest its lid back over the top and set it beneath a bush.

Night has now fallen in earnest, and the first stars are twinkling out. Everything is mostly dry, so I put my poncho back on, but leave my boots and socks off. Wrapping my blanket around me, I stare up at the stars. They are so beautiful, and look the same as they do in District 11. A wave of homesickness hits me. How do my friends feel, knowing I might not come back?

Suddenly the Capitol anthem blares out, preparing to show the death recap. I heard five cannons earlier in the day, but this is my chance to find out who it was that died.

First is Willi from Three, then the boy from Five, the boy from Seven, who I thought would live longer, little Cotton from Eight, and Liam from Twelve. I sigh heavily. Shahid and I are the youngest left.

Suddenly drained, I wrap myself in my blanket and drift off to sleep, lulled by the whisper of the waves.

* * *

 **Eulogies:**

 **24th Place-Wilhelmina Dye-speared by Atalanta Bliss-Willi was a submitted bloodbath, and I think we all saw this coming. What I didn't see coming was how attached I would get writing her. She was annoying and overconfident, but in the end she was just a kid that had been spoilt and misled about the Games. Thanks to xGred-Forgex (now Apollo's Slytherpuff Daughter) for giving me a tribute that could annoy us all, but at the same time managed to capture a piece of our hearts.**

 **23rd place-Phoenix Hemlock-knifed to death by Eleanor Bradford-Phoenix was the obligatory sadistic tribute, and I decided to shake things up by taking him down early. Perhaps I wasted and opportunity oh having a neat antagonist, but I needed to take out somebody strong in the bloodbath. Four was way too few. Phoenix would have been fun to write, and I'll miss him. Thank you to Lord Zagreus for Phoenix, and for accepting my decision to take him out. I was afraid you'd freak :) Better luck to Atalanta, I'm sure.**

 **22nd Place-Wyatt Foster-throat cut by Mercury Medall-Wyatt was a submitted possible bloodbath, so I seized the** **opportunity. We all knew he was too despairing to win, but his flat tone was so fun to write! He was a good tribute for conveying the horror and hopelessness of the Games. Hopefully Heaven will be better than he would expect. Thanks to xGred-Forgex for supplying not one but two bloodbaths. You should be seeing Capri stick around for a while.**

 **21st Place-Cotton Ombre-stabbed by Caspar Ophir-Cotton was another one we all saw coming. I didn't write him well at first, but he started to bloom toward the end. Only the good die young, and Cotton was one of the best. I think he taught Pixie some valuable lessons before he died, and that is one of the best things a person can hope to do. Thanks to Lord Zagreus for supplying me with so many tributes. I'm sorry I felt the need to kill Phoenix.**

 **20th Place-Liam Cox-stabbed by Wyatt Foster and Mercury Medall-Liam was the first blood of the Games, but he didn't actually die until just before the end of the bloodbath, when Mercury finished him off. Poor fellow, the Games taught him to value what he had before they began, but it wasn't much use in the end. I'm sure Mabel will forgive him, and see that he actually cared about her. Thank you to Snowstorm13 for submitting a bloodbath with quirks, who had struggles and trials of his own.**

* * *

 _ **What is Alabaster's plan?**_

 _ **How do you think it will turn out?**_

 _ **What is your impression of the arena now that we've seen more?**_

 _ **If the careers get anybody, who will it be?**_

 _ **Who do you miss the most?**_


	31. Beauty and Madness - Day 2

**Here is a second chapter of the Games. Sorry it took me a bit, but I've been working on sort of outlining where I want the next few chapters to go.** **So far I've got a plan for roughly a week of Games, and the tributes whittled down to top 15.**

 **Also, I wanted to ask that people please keep their language clean in the reviews. There have been a few incidents, and I don't want this story getting taken down. Nor, frankly, am I a fan of swearing myself. I get that everyone's excited to be into the Games, but there's no need to break fanfiction rules. If you like the story, don't put it at risk. Thanks!**

 **Without further adieu, may I present to you, Day Two.**

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

A lot of good we did tonight. Several hours of getting tangled up in bushes, stung by plants or bugs we couldn't see, and we didn't catch a single tribute. Not one.

We followed a blood trail leading away from the cornucopia, probably belonging to the boy from Nine, but the blood stopped and we couldn't track any further. I don't think Atalanta even cares that we're one of the saddest career packs in history. We killed a measly five tributes in the bloodbath. Actually, we killed four. The boy from Twelve was District 5's.

Four measly kills.

Pathetic.

All night spent tramping through a dark forest, earning bumps and bruises galore, and we don't have a single kill. Some leadership, Ms. Bliss. I mean, career packs don't catch anyone all the time, right? That's why the Capitol loves our districts. They can't get enough of us tripping around in the woods at night and spitting muffled curses every time we lose our balance? They eat it up! Not. At this rate, we have no sponsors whatsoever.

This arena shouldn't even be legal. We could walk within ten feet of another tribute and never know they were there. Why couldn't somebody have been stupid and lit a fire?

I bet someone would have, if the gamemakers hadn't brought the sun out. It's like they want the careers to fail.

The canoe grates against the ledge beside the cornucopia and I stand up.

"Don't - " Cyma starts, but it's too late. The canoe rocks wildly, and I tip over the edge and splash into the muddy water. By the time I claw back up to the surface, everyone is looking at me and laughing.

"What's so funny?" I snarl, but the others make no effort to restrain their mirth.

Reaching down a hand, Enzo pulls me up onto the ledge. I glare balefully at him. He thinks he's so nice, so superior, pulling me up here. Well, he obviously hasn't ridden in that canoe.

"The boat doesn't like you?" he asks. I can see his face twitching as he holds back laughter.

"No," I say icily, shaking water from my clothes. "It tried to drown me. Or weren't you paying attention?"

The others back off, and I stalk into the cornucopia to change into dry clothes. I'm going to enjoy it very much when the time comes for the career pack to split. Until then, I'm stuck with a bunch of giggling losers. The final eight cannot come soon enough, and at this death rate, it probably never will. Idiots.

When I come back out, there are cups of coffee and hot chocolate waiting for us. Enzo and I brought all the supplies inside the cornucopia last night, and everything is organized. It wasn't easy, either. Naturally, Atalanta didn't thank us or even acknowledge what we'd done once she came back. She just dropped Cyma off, told me to get my knives, and headed out again.

To my left, I see Cyma talking animatedly with her now. They both turn to us.

"Cyma had a great idea," Atalanta starts, getting our attention. "She suggested that we all pick out the weapons that we want, then put the others in one of the boxes and sink them at the bottom of the pond. That way no one else can get the extras. We can attach a bit of rope to it or something to it too so we can pull the box back up if we need it."

The plan's fine, but I won't say it. If the others want to do it, then go ahead.

"Caspar, can you help us get the stuff in a box?"

Guess they agreed to do it. Why am I the workhorse all of a sudden? We should have caught the District 11 brat and made him do things for us. This is such a waste.

I slam down my coffee mug, and load the weapons we don't need into a crate.

Just you wait, Ms. Bliss.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

I reach an open space just before dawn. In the early morning light, the acres of grass before me sparkle gray with dew. My eyes are blurred and tired from hours without sleep. My legs ache from walking and running over miles of forest. It is hard to stop trembling, with the exhaustion and fear that the arena brings so quickly weighing me down.

Running through the dark woods was the most terrifying thing I have ever done. At any moment, another tribute or a mutt could have leapt upon me and ended my life. Or taken me, and done it slowly. If anything or anyone had been stalking me, I would not have known until it was too late. The darkness and the terror were stifling. I could not sit to rest my legs, for fear that if I stayed in the same position too long I would be overtaken and captured. The Hunger Games are no place for a deaf girl. They are no place for anyone.

Finally I have found a place where I will be comparatively safe, and despite the terror of last night, I know that the worst part of the ordeal is mostly over. This arena is no harsh volcano or dry desert, and with a little luck I may manage to stay away from any action for several days. I wonder if the careers killed anyone since the death recap last night. I wouldn't have heard if there was a cannon.

Wading out into the grass, I make my way toward one of the clumps of trees that dots the field. If I can hide in one of these groves, I will able to see danger approaching long before it reaches me.

My heart sinks a little as the dewy grass, nearly as tall as my chest, soaks my freshly dried clothes with dew. At least the poncho covers most of my clothes, but my lower legs are soaked.

I sigh. They had only just dried.

After a few minutes of tangling my ankles in the long grass and tripping over hidden stones and hollows, I reach the grove closest to the center of the field. Five or so trees, none taller than fifty feet, stand clumped together. They have spiky but not painful dark green needles in place of leaves, and thick gnarled bark on the trunks. Underneath their boughs, the sun does not reach the ground and the grass is short and sickly. This will be a good place for me to hide.

The sun is rising, and looking back toward the woods I see that my passage through the grass cut a deep trail. There is nothing I can do to hide that I came this way.

All the same, there is nowhere else I can go. I need rest, and will have to hope that the careers do not come this way. This arena is large and forested, with streams and valleys and mud aplenty. They should be busy wherever they go hunting, and may overlook this area, or simply not come across it. It is a chance I must take.

I take off my poncho and hang it on the stub of a broken branch, then pull off my boots and socks. The ground is a little chilly against my feet, but the smooth earth and rough grass are comforting.

Setting down my bag of apples and bread at the base of the tree, and hanging my rope on another stub of a branch, I sit down and lean my head against the bark. The rising sun bathes the woods in orange light and sets the dewy grass on fire with sparkling wonder. Perhaps I could be happy here. It is a sad juxtaposition the gamemakers have created; choosing a place so beautiful as a setting for such fear and ugliness.

I take one of the apples from my bag and bite into it, reveling in the crispiness, sweetness, and juice. I have eaten only one slice of bread since the bloodbath, and have not drunk for fear of contaminated water. The juice soothes my dry mouth and within minutes I have eaten the whole thing. Pulling myself to my feet, I walk out and kneel down in the still-wet grass. Bending over, I suck the dew from the leaves.

Birds have been flittering about since early morning, no doubt singing sweet things I will never hear. A particularly sudden flash of wings causes me to turn. What I see makes me gasp in awe.

A flock of swallows, barn swallows, dips and dives in dizzying loops above the grass. They are beautiful and free, but what is behind them is even better.

Rising majestically from behind the tree line, a gorgeous mountain such as I have only seen in pictures raises a proud and snowy head. The last vestiges of the sunrise leave its snows sparkling a pale gold. Misty clouds wreathe the top, and peaks and rocky cliffs peep through. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and a stab of pain lances through my heart.

Why must we suffer under cruel hands when there is such beauty in the world?

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

The chirping of birds awakens me with a start. I had hardly realized that I fell asleep.

After the bloodbath I continued moving as far away as I could, and at last reached a place that felt comparatively safe. Thick-growing bushes that appear to be salal from training cover the ground, disguising moss and sticks. I couldn't move forward much anyways, since by that time darkness was falling, and I was constantly tripping and falling over hidden logs.

Stretching now, I can feel that my shins are still bruised. It's a good thing I stopped when I did, or I might have ended up with a broken leg.

I drank from several streams that I came across during my trek, but I am thirsty again. Standing and stretching my aching limbs, I lift the sack I retrieved from the cornucopia and open it up, pulling back the drawstring that holds the mouth closed. I still have not looked inside, and reaching in, I pull out first a small plastic jar with a tightly screwed lid. It is labeled as 'chlorine', and I feel a thrill of fear. In my terror yesterday, I did not think before I drank from those streams. Hopefully there was nothing in the water that will make me ill, but only time will tell. From now on, I vow to use the chlorine.

It won't pay to dwell on what may happen, so I continue to go through the bag. There is a silver packet of something powdery, and a piece of tape on the other side with letters typed across it tells me that it is "3 Servings Milk Powder". There is a roll of tough cording labeled "Paracord, 25' ", and several coils of wire. I already knew that those would be there, as they weren't originally in the sack. I grabbed them also from the cornucopia and put them in with the other things to make them easier to carry. There is a large back of jerked meat, another filled with dehydrated apple slices and prunes. I pull out another small package and suddenly laugh.

I cannot help it. After all, who has ever heard of a dehydrated ice-cream bar? I wonder what it will taste like.

The next item, practical and helpful though I will have to be careful how I use it, is matches. Reaching into the bag I feel around the bottom seams, but that is all that is inside. Not bad. Now that I know my haul, I need to make a plan.

Obviously, traps will figure big. Training was quite successful in turning mischievous pranks I taught myself into deadly weapons. Dropping a bucketful of water on someone's head? Well, fill the bucket with rocks and suddenly things end differently. Leaving out a toy and then throwing a water balloon on an unsuspecting victim? How about a water bottle and a knife. Twitch-up snare that leaves someone dangling? Well if there's no one to set them free, a few days without water will be their last. Even the simplest of knowledge can be turned lethal with a few modifications.

At this point, with no knives or other weapons, I only have the materials for twitch-ups and other traps that don't involve me killing the victim. Starvation will do that for me. I wish there was some way for me to set a rock dump trap, as that would if executed correctly leave the victim unconscious.

Sighing, I decide to continue thinking it over and get some water. I will want to set traps around a water source, anyway. Otherwise, why would anyone wander into them?

Gathering my things back into the sack, I set off downhill. There ought to be a stream...

The scent of skunk cabbages hits my nose after only a few minutes. They are one of the few plants I knew prior to training, as they grow in the ditches by the rails back in District 6. I also know that they need lots of water.

Running forward, it takes seconds before I find myself staring at a muddy puddle, fed by a small stream, and a bunch of reeds growing around it. Skunk cabbages stick their yellow heads from the water. It's a less than palatable sight, but I have the chlorine, don't I? Besides, I'm thirsty!

Taking the bag of prunes and apples from my sack, I pick a skunk cabbage leaf and carefully dump the fruits on it like a plate. Filling the now-empty bag with water, I drop in a chlorine tablet and wait for it to dissolve, munching on the prunes and apples. They are sweet but dry, and when the water is ready I drink eagerly. It taste's a bit odd, with the combination of mud and chlorine, but a few more munches of fruit quickly banish the taste.

Drinking the last bits, I wipe my mouth, and suddenly I have an idea.

If this bag held water like a bucket, why can't I use it to hold rocks like a bucket?

Looking up, I see that the trees around me are young saplings. They won't provide much cover for my trap, but most of the other trees are too tall anyway. It'll have to do. Some thirsty tribute will find it eventually.

Taking the largest rocks I can find from the shallow stream bed, I fill the bag as full as I can and tie a length of cord to it. No, that won't work. There's no way to set a trip-line properly. The other times I've done these, the action of an opening door would trigger the trap.

Selecting one of the largest saplings, I do the only thing I can think of. I climb the tree, and holding the bag in my lap, settle in to wait. I can brainstorm other ideas while I wait, and if a tribute does happen to wander by, I'll be waiting for him. After all, what else could I be doing? Napping? Drawing in the dirt? Eating all my supplies?

No, this is a much better use of my time.

* * *

 **Shahid Howe, 13**

 **District 11 Male**

* * *

Finishing my breakfast of canned beans and chicken, I dig a small niche in the pine needles and bury the can. No use in leaving a trail of food bits, is there? I'm too small to fight if I'm found. If only I had done more traps work in training I might have a chance!

The salty soup has made me thirsty, and I pull my water bottle from my bulging backpack. There are only a few sips left, and I am still very thirsty. There's no help for it, I'll have to go and find water. For a moment I consider leaving my heavy backpack behind, but then someone might steal it. No, I will have to carry it, and all my knives too. I bet I'm the best-armed tribute besides the careers!

What I mustn't think about is that I nearly died getting a massive backpack that I didn't really most likely need. Oh well, it worked out in the end. There's no use agonizing over what _might_ have happened.

Swinging the hugely heavy pack on, I roll my sore shoulders. I must have walked miles carrying it yesterday, and it wasn't easy. Huh. At least I have the stuff. But I wish that I'd managed to get some dry clothes too. The ones I have on are still damp and gritty from the dip we all had to take at the beginning.

I'm the youngest tribute left, and it fills me with pride. They got Wyatt and Willi, Liam and Cotton at the bloodbath, but they didn't get me! Or Capri. District 11 is strong. After all, how many other thirteen and fourteen year olds outlive psychos from District 7? Not many. It's something to brag about for sure. If I win, I will be the youngest victor in the history of the Games. I'd never have to worry about food or money or clothes again. I'd be rolling in money. Linus and I could buy whatever we wanted to use for our inventions. No more bits of rusty tools from the scrap heap! That could be my talent. Inventing. Who knows, maybe I could even hire a tutor from District 3...

As I walk through the forest, I continue to dream. The scrubby bushes scrape against my pant legs, and the clumsy boots the gamemakers put on us are always catching on hidden branches and snags. What are bumps and bruises though? I'm alive, and well on my way to victory.

I'll show Patroclus and Gaius who's boss! Even peacekeepers like them won't be able to laugh at me once I'm a victor and inventor. I remember how before the Reaping they hassled Linus and I for scavenging in the scrap heap. I wanted to spit in their smug little eyes, and as a victor I could do it. It's nearly impossible to hold back a laugh as I picture their shocked faces.

Linus can come and live with me in the Victor's Village. Kaheel and momma and poppa can come too, if they let me work on inventions without shaking their heads and telling me I ought to work harder on the things we _can_ do. Hmph. What would Kaheel know about hard work? He sews for goodness' sake!

Well, once I'm rich I suppose I can forgive them. It would be hard to be mad at anyone when you were rolling in money...

My thought trails off as my foot splashes down suddenly. Coming out of my dreaming, I see that my foot is stuck in the muddy edges of a small pool. A little stream gurgles into and then out of it, and I can't believe I missed the noise. Tugging, I manage to pull my foot from the mud with a sucking sound. As my foot pulls loose suddenly, I fall backward and land hard on my rear with a crackle. Wait, a crackle?

I scoot to the side and reach down. My hand touches plastic and I pull it out. It is a package of beef jerky, lying on the ground. My heart begins to race, suspecting a trap. Someone wouldn't just leave a bag of jerky lying around...

My eyes dart from side to side and I scramble to my feet, drawing my largest knife, the one with the saw on the back. Turning, I don't see anyone.

There is a rustle in the branches above my head and I look up, swigging my knife. The girl from District 6 pulls her foot away out of reach, and before I can react, lifts a large object and turns it up over my head. I flinch away, but it's too late. As if watching in slow motion, the rocks tumble down toward my face as I raise a hand to protect myself. Too late. Too late.

Smashing, crunching, bone-bruising pain overcomes me and I fall to the ground. I try desperately to open my eyes but I can't see. Crying, I crawl blindly away, but a wave of pain overwhelms me and I fall and lie still. I cannot move, it hurts too much. Too much.

My eyes sting with tears and my scalp tickles hotly. Opening my eyes again, I can see the girl lean over me blearily. She's going to kill me, I think, as she raises the knife I dropped above my neck. Hesitating, she suddenly turns away. I give another ragged sob. Distantly, her angry voice filters to my ears as she talks to herself.

"Agh, Venna you wimp, why can't you kill him. I should kill him. No, no, can't do it. Take his supplies then. That darned piece of jerky. I don't even know how it got there..."

She tugs the pack from my back, causing my head to smack against one of the rocks. My vision flashes red and white and I snuffle through my bleeding nose. There is a rustle in the bushes as she goes away, but I can't move. I try once again to sit up, but the pain is so bad that I can only manage a sitting position. Raising a tentative hand to my head, I touch my ear. It comes away sticky with blood, and I can feel my nose dripping. My head is so thick and swollen, and pounding pounding...I can't think. Girl didn't even mean to set a trap with that jerky she said, but I fell into it anyhow...it's not fair...

What did she do? Why did she hurt my head so? The rocks...ow, my ears...

I fall to the side and my stomach heaves. Splashing into the water on my hands and knees, I dunk my head in, trying desperately to find some way to stop the pain, but it only gets worse. Random flashes of light assail me whenever I move, and the ringing, that horrible ringing...

Sitting in the pool, soaked and bleeding, I press my hands over my ears and sob.

It isn't fair, not fair...

Ouch. Water in my nose. Why did I fall? Sitting up, I can't think. Sputter, splutter, get it out of my lungs...covered in water, no too warm, blood. Ah, my head...

I stumble to my feet and walk forward, the throbbing intensifying, flashing lights, I must get away, run Shahid, run, fall, run, can't get up, can't breathe, ah it hurts, momma where are you? Help me. Kaheel, momma, poppa, it hurts. Please. The lights. My ears. Help me.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

I am not dead. How am I not dead?

Tears stain my face for the hundredth time. This is worse than death, this never-ending fear. During the night, hearing them set out to hunt...boasting about how they'd mutilate, gut, string up, massacre, destroy, all if they found a tribute. And me right there. Injured and only feet away. The terror was indescribable. Then them coming back this morning, no kills, angry and seething for action. Cursing the gamemakers, the other tributes, themselves, each other...

The boom of a cannon startles me out of my musings. I hear a shout, and from where I lie behind a tree trunk can see Atalanta congratulating the girls from Four and Two. the boys went hunting again this afternoon, while the girls stayed to rest. I think that the District 2 girl is injured, but it's so hard to hear or see anything from here. They've moved all the supplies inside the cornucopia, that I know. Plus they said that this is an island. There are boats in the cornucopia, and the careers don't get wet.

Filtering clearly over the hundred yards of water between me and the cornucopia, I can hear them speculating now on who it was. Wondering if which of the boys killed him or her, how they died, who it was. Most of them hop it was the girl from Seven or Eight. The Four girl hopes it was the boy from Nine, Leon, who was allied with Alabaster. I don't care who it was, so long as it's not me.

I'm so very tired. The wet and the fear have not let me sleep, and I've hardly eaten. My ankle is swollen and stiff. Broken or not I don't know, only that there is no way I can walk. Especially since the careers will see me the moment I move.

Half of my loaf of bread is gone, and what will happen when it has disappeared entirely I don't know. I'll starve, I suppose, but I can't think about it. A tear runs down my face and drips off my nose. Curse the girl from Nine. Beaten by a deaf girl. Why couldn't she have killed me outright? And don't want to starve, or have the careers find me...

So close to their lair, the ideas of what they might do to me are nightmarish. Past Hunger Games have shown all kinds of brutality from the careers. It appears as though most of the time they aren't quite stable. Only a madman would perform the sins they do.

Perhaps Enzo would find me. I think he would kill me quickly. He seemed like a gentleman.

The thoughts bring fresh choking sobs into my throat and I whimper. What circumstances make a person think this? Where someone who would deliver a quick stab to the neck or chest is gentleman, because he would kill quickly instead of letting life drain slowly away on the ground? I'd kill like anyone else, to survive. Even backstabbing and murder might be necessary. But torture? And volunteering for it?

I am shuddering uncontrollably, and the rest of the afternoon passes in a miserable blur. By this time I am sitting not just in mud but in my own waste. I have been forced to drink the stagnant water seeping from the muck, and I am living like the lowest of the swine they keep in pens back home. Just like the pigs, someday I will have my throat slit...

Night falls, and the bird sounds cease. The boys come back, and are greeted by the excited girls. The boy from Four doesn't talk much, and the other two are irate. They didn't kill whoever died today, and they are furious. The girls too seem subdued, if not downright disdainful. Soaked and exhausted from a day and a night without sleep, I begin to drift off. A blare of noise startles me awake and I only just manage to stifle a shriek. It's only the death recap.

The sky lights up, and the face of the little boy from Eleven shines out for a long moment. Another dead. When will this end?

Two days, and already I wish for death.

* * *

 **19th Place-Shahid Howe-massive concussion and hemorrhaging caused by Venna Wilcox-Shahid was a very different tribute for a boy from Eleven, with his dreams of inventing. I enjoyed writing him, but I never quite grew to love him. He might have interacted interestingly with Danny had he had the chance, but I knew I needed to kill someone and I didn't have a good arc for him, so he was weeded out. He was doing his own thing, and I liked that. I feel like he really bloomed in this last POV, and if it makes his submitter feel any better, he got a pretty epic death, one you sure don't see every day. Thank you to Fizzical for Shahid. I don't know if you're still reading, but if you are, I hope I did him justice.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-1 (credited with Wyatt Foster)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story-Zita Moreno and Danny Sparks  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore  
Cry Treachery-Alabaster Parker, Leon Rayner**

* * *

 **Questions:**

 _ **What do you think of the arena?**_

 _ **At this point, what would your strategy be?**_

 ** _What do you think of the three current alliances?_**

 ** _Any predictions for particular events?_**

 ** _Next deaths?_**

 ** _Seeing a victor yet?_**

 ** _If your tribute(s) died, who would you root for?_**

 ** _How realistic have the deaths\injuries\behaviors so far been?_**


	32. Better and Worse - Day 3

**Updates should be 1-2 times a week. Writing detailed chapters, I just haven't been able to get one out every other day :(**

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

Finally, I have found a good place to lie low.

The majority of the games thus far has been spent simply trying to find a secure location to make camp. Somewhere hidden, near water, and with a decent food source.

This arena is rich in greenery and berries, but many of them are foreign to me, and the risks of eating them outweigh the benefits. There are a lot of blackberry bushes, but whatever season it is in this arena, it's not time for blackberries yet. My guess is that it is supposed to be late spring, as the bushes and trees still show pale green new growth. With the erratic weather, it's hard to tell for sure.

On day one it was misty and cold, though it heated up slightly in the afternoon. Yesterday was quite hot, with barely a cloud in the sky. I walked along the beach for most of the day, and could clearly see a large mountain rising above the trees and beyond the water. In my wanderings, I have seen that the arena is an island, or more correctly two islands very close together, so much so that at low tide they are connected. The mountain is on the mainland, and likely just a projection. If it wasn't, the arena would have to be massive, since it is at least forty miles away. I suspect that if I tried to swim toward it, the gamemakers would turn me back. As it is, I am not about to try. I can't swim at all.

A breeze has been blowing all morning in fitful starts over the shining water, and it ruffles my matted bangs as I turn and face inland. A good place at last, where I will be safe.

Sloping steeply upward is the island, the incline covered in maples and alders festooned with ivy. The water laps gently at a stretch of shore, exposed by the low tide. The smell of the ocean is strong in the air, and I revel in it. Switching my sack of supplies, by this time dangerously light, into my left hand, I start up the slope. Wincing slightly, I ease my right hand under my shirt and massage my bruised stomach. Yesterday I could hardly walk with the pain, but it is better now, even if pulling up mys shirt reveals shocking bruises. Thank goodness Leon was to frightened to revers his grip on the spear in the bloodbath, or I would have been impaled on the first day and died in the mud.

 _Like Cotton._

It is hard to banish the boy from my memory. The way I sang to him, and the way he trusted me. If I had followed him more closely, focused on him before my own selfish need for supplies...

What's done is done, though it pains me, I remind myself. I _did_ try to save him, and was nearly skewered in the process. Now I must focus on keeping myself alive.

I sit down on a spot where the slope is steep, bare, and sandy, resting on a projecting hillock of earth held together by grass. Opening my sack and drawing my knife from my belt, I begin work on a task I should have completed long before. Making my sling.

The fabric of our ponchos is thick and sturdy, made of plastic so that it will be water resistant. It is stiff and strong, like a synthetic piece of leather, and well-suited to my needs.

Using the knife, I carefully cut out a four inch square from the rim of my poncho, trying to damage the garment as little as possible. No use in wasting anything when I have so little at my disposal. Then I cut holes in the eyes, and pass lengths of cord from the roll in my sack through the holes. Tying the strings tightly to prevent them from fraying, I replace my materials in the bag, stick my knife back through my belt, and survey the result. A plenty serviceable little weapon lies before me.

Lifting it upright, I dangle it from my hand, then make my way back down the hill, ignoring my bruised abdomen in my excitement. Reaching the beach, I fill my pockets with heavy stones about half the size of my fist. Experimenting, I place one in the pouch and whip the weapon up and over.

The rock sails far out over the water, and disappears with a plop.

Scurrying back up the slope, I look for a suitable place to hide my supplies while I go out to hunt. There is a snag leaning haphazardly on the hillside, draped in ivy. Getting and idea, I climb up to it and shove the vines aside.

Sure enough, the ivy hangs straight down to the ground, leaving a small triangular space between the top of the snag, the hill, and where the ivy meets the ground. It is just large enough that, curled a bit, I can fit inside. Being careful to disturb the vines as little as possible, I shove my bag inside and smooth the ivy back to its original position. Even I have trouble telling that anything was changed.

Smiling, I head off into the woods with my knife and sling, feeling confident for the first time since I stumbled gasping from the bloodbath.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

Still no kills from the career pack since the bloodbath. I think even Atalanta, who has been making a strong effort to appear level-headed and in control, is feeling annoyed and perplexed. Accustomed to a life of action and danger, with frequent fist-fights and cheering spectators, the arena is both a let-down and a relief. For the first time since I started fighting, I'm not sporting bruises. But I'm afraid the boredom is bad enough that it doesn't matter, and I'm desperate for action.

Atalanta, Cyma, Caspar and I have been hunting since after breakfast. The supplies in the cornucopia are sumptuous, with soup mixes, tea, and hot chocolate always available. We haven't exactly been roughing it, which makes it perplexing that so far there has been no sign of another tribute.

Tightening the belt carrying six knives that I wear around my waist, I increase my vigilance. We are covering the south of the arena today, since for the most part the past two days we were near the center or the northern beaches. The weather is hot, though the air isn't dry, and I am sweating. It all combines to make me irritable and ready to irritate someone else. Finally, I can suppress my annoyance no longer.

"Atalanta, when are you planning on actually catching someone?" I ask.

She rounds on me. "As soon as possible. Is the work too much for you? Because I'm sure that you can help cook back at camp."

"Don't think I'd poison you?" I put an arrogant note in my tone.

"I wouldn't put it past you. I don't trust you as far as I could throw you, and-"

"With arms like that you couldn't throw me very far," I mutter.

Her eyes narrow. "Would you care to repeat that?"

"You heard me."

"Fine." She glares and takes a step toward me, ready to really bawl me out, when there is a snap and a jerk.

I jump back as Atalanta is yanked violently into the air, spears falling with a clatter from the makeshift quiver on her back. After a moment, it becomes clear that she is unhurt, though her face is turning red. Straining, she pulls herself upright to grab on to the rope, fingering the knot around her ankle.

"Well don't just stand there," she says furiously. "Help me down!"

Wordlessly, Cyma steps forward drawing a knife, and positions it against the rope. "Ready?" she asks. "I don't want to drop you on your head."

"Ready," Atalanta repeats.

Cyma saws through the rope with a few deft jerks, and Atalanta lands catlike on her feet, gathering her spears up and replacing the shorter javelins in the quiver on her back. Re-tucking her gray turtleneck into the top of her pants, she looks at me, a satisfied smile on her face. "Before I was so rudely interrupted, I was going to tell Mercury that he was a pompous fool, and we'd find tributes when we worked our butts off enough to actually make progress. Any wimps or insubordinate oafs can head back to the cornucopia and wash dishes for all I care. And, it seems that we have tributes now. Who made this trap? Somebody in the area, somebody that will be back to check it. So, Mercury, you can either crouch down in the bushes, suck it up, and join our little stake-out, or you can head back now."

Without even looking at me, she draws a javelin ready to throw and crouches in the bushes. The others all follow suit, and I am forced to concede her point. Perhaps even respect her, just a little.

After all, it may be hard to best me with fists, but it's even harder to best me with words, and she just did.

* * *

 **Venna Wilcox, 17**

 **District 6 Female**

* * *

With the supplies from the backpack the boy from Eleven was carrying, I have enough to last me more than a week, maybe two at a pinch, and the thought fills me with exultation. I was able to set more traps - twitch-ups, more rock dumps, and even a net - with the things he carried. That was one greedy boy, I think, to have risked his life for many seconds grabbing four knives when he could have easily used one. In the bloodbath, every second counts, and he wasted many. It's a wonder he even made it out alive.

He isn't alive now.

When I saw his face in the sky last night, I couldn't summon much of any emotion. No tears, no exultation, just a sort of dead acceptance. I didn't mean to kill him, and maybe I didn't. The careers may have come upon him while he was injured. I saw the blood on his head though, and perhaps I am only denying the facts: that I killed Shahid Howe.

I did it to survive.

He gave me supplies that I needed desperately, and his life was not wasted. If I win, it will have been because of him. His life gave me a way to survive. It's almost like he sacrificed himself for me. In the Games, we all know what we're doing and that we must do it. I'm sure he knew that. I'm guilty of no crime. Valuing life is good, and I value mine, so I do everything I must to survive.

Survival of the fittest is the definition of the Hunger Games. I was fitter than he was; smarter, quicker, more able.

Whatever the reason, I beat him out. Perhaps I even rescued him from a slow and painful death.

This endless rationalization is a waste of time. He is dead. I am alive. I must do everything in my power to stay that way.

Rising, I head out to check the snares I set yesterday afternoon. I blazed the trees with the small machete Shahid had, so that I'd be able to find the traps later. I hold the machete in my hand now, in case of running into another tribute or some other threat. Following the blazes, I move along.

The first trap, a figure-four used for hunting small game, is empty.

The second, a twitch up, is also undisturbed, as are both rock dumps. Now there is only the last twitch-up and the net.

Standing up twenty feet above the salal that covers the forest floor is a small cedar sapling, and I head toward it. Concealed among it's lower boughs is the twitch up. My feet crunch among the twigs, and I step carefully. Hidden dips and fallen branches beneath the underbrush have caused me more than a few falls, but already I am learning to navigate the forest's treachery.

I catch sight of the base of the tree and frown. The moss at the base is churned and torn, and my snare loop lies on the ground, cut clean in half. Someone disturbed it...

A flash of metal off to my left catches my eye and I take off, running blindly back the way I came. Someone, a girl, curses loudly and shouts break out. The careers!

Terror lends my feet wings and I dash among the trees. The voices are louder, and another knife shears the air beside my head and tugs my ear, coating my cheek in sticky blood. Jettisoning the heavy backpack I for a moment find new speed, desperate to escape. Then my foot drops down suddenly, barking my shin and pitching me forward onto my face. Standing, I whirl to face my pursuers. To late.

The boy from Two is behind me, a satisfied grin on his face and a long knife in his hand. The girl from One balances a spear in her hand, a fierce grin on her face and her partner standing behind her. The girl from Four stares implacably into my face, a knife in each hand. I hold the small machete out in front of me, but already I know that I am dead. I can never fight the careers.

Businesslike, Cyma raises a knife to throw. Tears spring into my eyes as I grip the machete white knuckled, breath coming hard and fast. Each one I expect to be my last.

"What are you planning on doing with that little stick?" Two taunts.

"Kill you," I hiss. Might as well go down fighting.

Swinging the machete, I lunge at his face. He steps easily to the side and, grabbing my arm, drops his knife. I'm in deep trouble. Reaching up, I claw at his face with my free left hand. He snarls, blood running from his forehead, and twists my arm up and over. There's a snapping crunch and white-hot pain shoots up and down, running past my shoulder and into my spine. Sobbing, I double over, trying to lift my limp arm and twist away. He grabs my neck hard, and pushes his elbow in front of it. I can't breathe.

I try to kick at his knees, but he holds me so hard and close there is no power behind the blows. My chest sobs for air and my eyes sting as I choke, flailing, clawing at his arm with my good hand. My ears start to buzz, and the pain in my arm seems far away. I will die. If I lose consciousness, I will die. I have to keep fighting. Have to breathe.

Out the corner of my eye, I see Cyma striding towards us.

"Stop playing with her, Mercury."

"Let Cyma finish her," Atalanta seconds.

The pressure on my throat loosens, and I drop to my knees, retching and gasping for air, my head pounding. Their is a glint of silver and a flurry of fear and pain as Cyma brings her arm up.

But it is brief, and finished.

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

Blood trails from the chest of the girl from Six, and her eyes star sightlessly up at the sky as I eject my knife and stand up, wiping the blade on the thick moss of the forest floor. Her face is terrified, and her eyes bulge, her mouth is slightly open. I look down dispassionately as Caspar picks up her backpack and swings it onto his own shoulders. Mercury picks the knife from where she let it fall, and steps back.

A cannon bangs, echoing in the still air. All bird calls ceased when the fighting and noise began.

So the girl is dead.

Perhaps I ought to feel a sense of exaltation at my kill, but instead it just feels like 'one down, sixteen to go'. The Games aren't about killing, they're about victory. This was just one step.

"Better head out before the body decomposes," Mercury warns, earning a laugh from Caspar.

Holding his nose delicately, Mercury steps over the body and away. Those two boys will never win, I think, as I follow the others into the woods. They're cocky, immature, and unfocused. Atalanta and Eleanor are my biggest threats. Both are analytical and smart. Eleanor especially is a wildcard, impossible to predict. I'll have to step carefully when the time comes for the alliance to shatter.

The others continue to laugh and joke as we walk, praising my skills. I stay quiet, as though uninterested or to shy to join in the conversation. But I keep my ears open.

"Finally," Mercury is saying. "I thought this pack would never get their act together."

"Really?" Atalanta arches a dark eyebrow. "With me leading? Goodness, you're more thick-skulled than I thought. After all, everyone has to plan before they attack. Did you think that we would have bloodbaths every day. What _do_ you fellows learn in District 2?"

Caspar snickers. "Good question."

"How to fight, naturally. Who grabbed that girl and would have killed her without even using a weapon had you all not butted in? You should have let me have my show."

"Killing isn't everything, Mercury," Atlanta tells him in a high-and-mighty voice. "Perhaps if you suppressed your animal instincts of choke, punch, and stab, you might more appreciate Cyma's skill with ranged weapons. She hit the girl from fifteen paces, while she was moving on the ground. What if she'd been stronger than you? You're choke-hold wouldn't have mattered much."

"But that's the point. Nobody's stronger than me. That's what I learned, and that's what I keep saying." Mercury sounds vaguely exasperated.

Caspar pats his shoulder sympathetically. "Don't worry old fellow, we've got your back."

"Yes, I'll be happy to rip your spine out and hold it for you any time," Atalanta adds.

Mercury rolls his eyes and walks on, faster. I guess the hazing has gone too far. "All fun and Games," Caspar calls after him.

"I'll teach you to play a game I learned in Two when the alliance breaks," Mercury shoots back, and suddenly the conversation is no longer light-hearted. Banter is all well and good, but I need to keep my head in the Game, and the best way to do that is to keep it down and listen.

One down, sixteen more to go. Yes. That's what I must focus on.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

My stomach gives another ominous gurgle. At any moment I expect to errupt into a human volcano, making unmistakable noises that will sure to draw the careers from the cornucopia like moths to a flame. It's just Enzo and Eleanor guarding again, but they would be more than capable of putting a crippled, mud-smeared girl out of her misery. Swallowing hard, I will myself not to be sick. They mustn't find out that I am here!

Drinking pond water has very...unpleasant...effects on the digestive system of a person. Especially if said person has been living in answering nature's call in the same said pond, as I have.

Revolting, and yet I cannot give up. The misery only makes me more desperate to survive, and tonight I make my attempt. All or nothing. Perhaps trying to escape at dark would be seen as the wisest plan, when it would be hard for the careers to spot me. But it is quiet at night, and they would hear me, and kill me that way. No, there must be some sort of cover for the noise I will no doubt make. After all, with an injured leg and stiff muscles, I shan't be able to help blundering about like a blind, three-legged cow.

My ankle no longer burns with sharp stabs when I move it, but is instead stiff as a board and suffused with a dull ache that intensifies when I attempt to use the limb. Nevertheless, it is an improvement, and I cannot afford to risk another day in such a tenuous position.

Moving as quietly as possible, I pull up my pant leg, seeing the taut skin stretched pink and tight over the injury. Thankfully I thought to take off my boot as soon as the bloodbath ended, otherwise my boot would have cut of circulation, filled with water and mud, and no doubt done terrible damage.

The loaf inside its plastic bag that was my only trophy of the bloodbath is nearly gone. Carefully setting the last two slices on a log, I take a pair of sturdy branches that I broke from the willow above me as the careers returned early this morning. Their noise hid the snapping sounds, and when the pack returns tonight from hunting is when I will make my move. The only good thing about the pack is that they seem completely incapable of stealth, silence, and any other civilized form of behavior. their rowdiness will let me escape.

Using the plastic that wrapped my bread, I use it to tie the willow poles firmly against my leg as a makeshift splint. I have done this before on lambs that injured themselves at the farm, breaking their delicate legs in their rowdy play. Never have the stakes been so high, and yet my fingers are swift and sure. Being frightened and uncertain is not an option.

There is another gurgling sound from my uncertain stomach, and I bite my lip. I cannot throw up. Cannot reveal my position now. Not when I am so close.

The splint is tight, but not so tight as to cut off circulation. Testing it, I stick my fingers beneath the bands around it. Not to tight, not too loose. It should not fall off, not cut off circulation. I wince slightly as my fingers make contact with the swollen skin underneath.

Taking the bread slices, I eat one carefully chewing thoroughly and eating in small bites. My mouth is dry, but I will not put any more of the vile stuff around me into my mouth.

There is a sound of chatter and snapping branches from the trees about twenty feet to my left. The shore is solid and rocky there, and it is where the careers have been embarking into and docking their canoe. Now, they must be returning. I take a deep breath, putting my hands on my bedraggled knees to stop them from shaking. The sun filters through the trees, warming my smeary face and making dancing patterns on the still water.

Climbing into the canoe, the pack shoves off. Eleanor appears at the mouth of the cornucopia.

"I heard a cannon! Was that you?"

"Yes," Mercury calls back. "Cyma and I killed the girl from Six."

"Cyma killed him," Atalanta corrects, rolling her eyes. "All you did was grab her before anyone said you could or gave the word. Huh, she could have slipped away from you."

"Not true, I would have choked her to death," Mercury claims indignantly.

The urge to be sick comes over me again, and I tune out the careers words, moving quickly and as I quietly as I can. The loud splashing and talking masks the noise as I pull myself to my feet, the mud sucking as I pull free. Swaying unsteadily, leaning most of my weight on my good foot, I grab the stick I chose as a cane and gingerly step forward. It hurts, and the ache in my ankle intensifies, but my leg does not buckle under me as it did last night when I attempted to move.

Last night, I wished for death, and I tried to run, but I only fell.

No longer do I desire death. A new fire runs through me as, step by limping step, I pull free of the mud's murderous grip. My poncho hangs heavy upon me, and I reek of mud and other, more unpleasant things.

But I am alive, and I can _walk_ on another few hundred feet, my leg at last can no longer support me. Lying down on my stomach, I pull off my poncho and slide it into a thicket of thorny vines and bushes that climb over a small dead tree. Crawling after it, I conceal myself entirely among the thorny vines. I am scratched, bleeding, tired, and sick, but I am alive and I am safe.

My stomach lurches and I crawl hastily out of the bushes again, vomiting profusely. Wiping my mouth, I almost smile. I got away from the career camp only just in time.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

Danny and I have camped undisturbed now for two days. It almost seems to good to be true, but we have seen neither hide not hair of tribute or mutt.

I thought that the Hunger Games would be a place of blood and terror. Certainly, at its essence, it is. But right now, I feel happy and peaceful. Danny saved my life. No one has ever saved my life before. I'm sure my mother and father would, but that a boy I hardly knew would risk his life to save me sends electric thrills of excitement running through me just thinking about it.

Right now, Dan is getting a fire going to heat up a can of soup. He always lights his fires at either dawn or dusk, when the air is hazy and will hide the smoke, but is still bright enough not to show the light. Someone could smell smoke of course, but we use only the driest wood, and the chances are slim. We light the fire, let it die to hot ashes, and then place a soup can among them. The residual heat warms it perfectly, without burning it at all. Still, I insist on stirring it with a stick, just in case.

I think that he is worried.

We have a sword, a tent, a backpack full of food and supplies, but that food can only last so long and we are running low. I can see on his face that he is afraid of what that might mean.

Whatever he does, I am not afraid. He is the kindest, most chivalrous young man I have ever met. A true gentleman. He even insisted on sleeping outside at night, since it wasn't proper for a young man and a young lady to share the same tent.

There's a scrape as he ignites a match, setting it to the twigs and pine needles we collected and blowing softly. I come over and add my breath to his, fanning the flames until they dance at lick greedily at the wood. Reaching back, I put larger sticks on, and he does the same. The flames rise higher, and I move back, squatting on my haunches and watching as the orange lights up his face.

His eyes are narrowed in focus, and if he notices me staring, he doesn't give a sign. It feels strange, being this close to a boy, especially one who saved my life.

I wonder if it's indecent. What my parents would think. I think that they would tell me to be careful, but I also think that they would want to meet him, want me to bring him to dinner or something so that they could meet him and thank him properly.

Frowning, I try to see what would make a boy so willing to lay down his life for another. I remember him talking about his girl back home, that he so wanted to see again. If he wanted to see her, why did he risk death, to save me, who he didn't even know?

He is puzzling.

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

The anthem blares out just as the bread I am eating, smeared in something from a can that is cheese and yet not cheese, disappears with its last bite down my throat. I look up at the sky. Byron and I both heard a cannon today, but whoever it was must have died far away, as we never heard anything. The careers were nearby last night, but we've been careful not to light fires, so the close call was just that: a close call, not a death.

Now, there are seventeen of us left in this arena.

It is a sobering thought. My heart still aches when I think of my family. They miss me, I know. Perhaps they were not the most affectionate or talkative, but they loved and cared for me.

I remember seeing the drug addict murder a man in Six. I was so shocked and frightened and terrified, and now, death is all around me. I will see Byron die, the little girl from Eleven die, my partner die, all if I am to make it back home.

A girl's face lights up the sky, and I flinch.

I will not have to see my district partner die. She is already gone.

Byron watches soberly as she fades away, and puts and arm around my shoulder. I blink back tears, though I don't know why. I never really planned to make it back, that's why I volunteered for Meldin in the first place. He needed me. The reminder of what death really means, that this girl who was living, breathing, loving, sorrowing, only a few hours ago is now dead, cuts me to the heart.

"Did you know her well?" Byron asks softly.

"No," I choke.

Then I turn to him. "But she was _alive._ "

He nods solemnly, eyes pained. Then: "We all are," he says softly. "This is all so wrong."

I nod once, miserably, as the last strains of the Capitol anthem fade into the night.

* * *

 **Eulogies:**

 **18th Place-Venna Wilcox-knifed by Cyma Dolore-Venna was a realistic young lady. She was not eager to kill, nor was she eager to die. She was not abused or horrendously poor, nor was she the wealthy spoiled mayor's daughter. She was a survivor, but not a villain, not a genius but neither a fool, not stupid, but not a walking super computer. She used the tools and wits she had at her disposal to take a shot at winning the Hunger Games. The careers found her, and there was no way for her to win. Poor Venna was an excellent addition to this story, and of the tributes killed thus far, possibly my favorite to write. Thank you svcsf (now Sea Otter Pups) for Venna. She was a joy to have.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-1 (credited with Wyatt Foster)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story-Zita Moreno and Danny Sparks  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore  
Cry Treachery-Alabaster Parker, Leon Rayner  
Brotherband-Byron Calvert and Hunter Robinson**

* * *

 **Questions:**

 _ **If you could kill a tribute, who and how would it be done?**_

 _ **If you were in Ricotta's position, what would you do?**_

 _ **If you were Venna, how would you have reacted to an ambush by careers?**_

 _ **If you were a part of this career pack, what would your assessment of the others look like?**_

 _ **If you could be one tribute, who would you be?**_

 _ **Who would you like to see next chapter?**_

 _ **Predictions for events\deaths\alliances\attacks\etc?**_

* * *

 **Note: I simply forgot to put Hunter and Byron on the alliances list last chapter. That did not mean anything sinister, and their alliance is currently intact. Also, I incorrectly listed Shahid Howe in his eulogy as being submitted by Fizzical. That was incorrect, as Fizzical has since become Astronaughty. Oops, and quit changing your names you guys, you're confusing me ;-)**


	33. Trouble and Change - Day 4

**Here is Day Four. Enjoy. I'll be gone next week, but hope to resume regular updates after that. I'll bring a notebook where I'm going and keep writing, I just won't be able to post. Forgive me :)**

* * *

 **Leon Rayner, 17**

 **District 9 Male**

* * *

I awake shivering and dripping with dew in the morning air. It carries a sharp chill, and I must have cast my blankets off during the night by thrashing, leaving no barrier between me and the cold.

Sitting upright, still quivering, I reach forward for my blanket and pull it to me with my right hand. My left shoulder still screams in protest, and I wince as I lean my head forward, my stiff neck spasming with pain. I wrap the blanket around me tightly, trying to stop the shaking. My forehead is damp with dew, and I rub my face, wincing again at the movement.

Certainly I am a mess. My neck is sore and swollen, and my eyes bloodshot from not sleeping well with the pain and cold. My face would be covered in black stubble, except that in the Capitol something was done to keep us from growing beards in the arena. We can be bleeding, sick, exhausted, dying, but to let us grow a beard would be an unforgivable crime. A true tragedy.

I snort. It's hard to think about what's going wrong now that so much has. Wounded. Tired.

The stitches itch, and suddenly the blanket seems much too thick and scratchy. Tossing it aside, I ease up my sleeve and look at the wound. I didn't have the heart to see it earlier, but it ought to be mostly healed now, at least scabbed over. When I see the bandage, I cannot help give a gasp of disgust.

It is crusted in yellow and pink fluid, and the skin around the wound is pink and grotesquely swollen. Angry red lines crawl from underneath the bandage, down my shoulder and arm and up my neck. It shouldn't look this way.

Reaching across with my right hand, I ease the bandage from the cut. The stitches cut into the skin, crusted with blood, and beads of clear pus ooze from the cut. It is far from scabbed over, and is instead open and festering, gaping between the jagged stitches. Bile fills my throat at the very sight of it, and I bend over to keep from being sick. The movement makes my head ache, and I reach for a water bottle to clear my dry mouth.

As I do, I see that Alabaster is awake, watching me. As I turn, her eyes widen for a split second and something flickers across her face, replaced a moment later by a look of horror. Putting her hand over her mouth, she leans toward me.

"Leon," she starts. "That looks terrible."

I nod. "It does. It shouldn't be like that when you cleaned it, should it? A friend of mine once cut her foot on broken glass, and it healed right up. Scabbed over in a day and was good as new in a week. What's wrong?"

She hesitates, and opens her mouth. Then: "I don't know." Turning rapidly, she leans down and busies herself opening a water bottle and passing it to me.

Taking a deep draft, I watch her closely. Her bottom lip is quivering, but when she turns to me there is no sign that she is upset. She hands me the package marked 'Ice-cream' that was in our backpack. How ice-cream can be dehydrated is beyond me, but apparently it can be done.

She opens it up and proffers the bar. "Here. The best thing is for you to eat and rest. We'll have to just see what happens."

Accepting the food, I watch as she lies back down, covering herself with her half of the unzipped sleeping bag we use as a blanket. Her eyes close, and her breathing becomes deep and even once again. I wonder what time it is. In the past, the birds chirping have awakened us well before dawn, but even they are still silent. It must be just a little after midnight, the start of the fourth day we have spent in the arena. Already the time feels interminable.

Blinking, I lie down, munching on the bar. It tastes surprisingly good, though nothing like ice-cream.

Beside me, Ala flinches, and her face spasms. She's slept restlessly, something I attributed to the stress of the Games, but now I am suspicious. For days she has hardly spoken to me, not the quick-talking schemer I met in training. She'll stare, sometimes, and then look away suddenly. Once, after coming back from a quick reconnaissance, I found her with knees drawn up, staring fixedly at the first aid kit.

"No, not dead...yet..killer..." her tortured voice comes from the bag. "I'm sorry, sorry..."

Nightmares. The torment of the traumatized or guilty mind. When Burgundy was nearly sold to the peacekeepers, she used to cry out constantly and thrash in her sleep. None of the other girls wanted to bunk with her. I used to have nightmares about when my parents were taken away. From her bearing in the Capitol, there was nothing weighing on Alabaster then. The only person she could be afraid of, could have killed, since then, is...me.

The injury. For a moment, she seemed relieved.

Red-hot anger burns inside me as another throbbing ache comes from my arm. People die of blood poisoning all over Panem. Alabaster has used nature to kill me.

She has no right to win the Games. Not as the treacherous snake she is. I am dying by her hand. She wasn't even brave enough to stick a knife into me. She's determined to do it slow and careful, keeping her own hands 'clean'. Well, I'll still die, and it won't be pleasant. Unless I get some very wealthy sponsors, and soon, my games are over. Those red lines of death creeping up my arm and neck need only to reach my heart or brain and I will shut down. So far, now sponsor will be interested in me. I am injured and dying, a liability rather than a good investment.

There is only one thing that could possibly pique audience interest and earn their loyalty.

I would have to get a kill. And everyone loves a revenge story.

My eyes narrow.

There is no other way, and I must survive.

* * *

 **Alabaster Parker, 17**

 **District 12 Female**

* * *

 _Dana's accusing eyes stare into my face as the peacekeeper draws up his arm for another blow and brings the rope, barbed with glass, down on the girl's back. Blood covers her ragged dress and makes the paving stones slippery. The air is still and quiet, the square empty but for the girl and the peacekeeper, and me standing silent in frozen horror._

 _As the lash comes down again, drops of blood splatter the girl's white face and she screams, the sound tearing at my ears and heart. What have I done? The lash rises again, and again, and again._

 _I want to sob, to add my screams to hers, but no noises will come. People begin filling the square and forming a silent ring around the tortured girl; each one stares at me in accusation as they pass. Their eyes are hollow and fill me with overwhelming guilt._

 _"I never told about the ribbon!" I want to scream, but my voice will not come. "I only threatened! I was never going to tell! I swear it! Besides, the peacekeepers hardly ever enforce the stealing rules anyway!"_

 _"You told me they would do this to me," Dana answers, though her mouth is still open in a scream rather than speaking words._

 _The lash continues to whistle._

 _"This is what I saw every time you looked at me. You are a liar. You are an immoral beast. You will say and do anything to get your way. You wanted a few cheap buttons for the mayoress' dress, so you blackmailed me over that ribbon!"_

 _"I wasn't going to tell! This never happened! I never told!" I try to shriek it again and again. The words tear around in my chest and throat. "I was never going to tell!"_

 _"What about_ _Leon, you meant for him to die. You mean for_ me _to die."_

 _The lash descends on Dana's face, tearing it away and revealing a grotesque, grinning skull. It rips into her shoulder, showing bone and muscle and veins, all putrefying and rotten. She regrows, transforming before my eyes into my ally, her face becoming Leon's, shoulder wounded, eyes staring and accusing and boring their way into my mind and soul._

 _I scream at the top of my lungs, but my mouth will not open and I choke. The scream tears my throat, filling my lungs with blood, but still my mouth will not open. I gurgle and gag, thrashing wildly._

And at last, I wake up.

The air is cold on my face, and the last stars are fading into the night sky. But something is wrong. I still cannot breathe. I am still choking, my mouth filled with warm, metallic, suffocating blood. I try to struggle, find what has happened to me, but I cannot move.

My side burns with searing pain, and all over I am tingling and unnatural. The iron grip around my neck loosens, and I fall back to a lying position, huddled among the sleeping bags, now stained red. Groping down my side, I feel the cold touch of metal, and look up into the implacable eyes of my former ally. My knife. The one that I hid in my pocket, that he wasn't supposed to know I had...he knows everything. And he has paid me in full. In blood.

I close my eyes and surrender.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

Stealthily, I climb to my feet, glancing toward the tent where Zita sleeps. There is no sign of movement. She must still be sound asleep.

Moving across the clearing to where my backpack lies on the ground, I turn it upside down and empty the supplies on the ground. It is hard to see exactly what is what in the predawn darkness, and with another guilty glance at the tent, I switch on a flashlight.

Shielding the beam with my hand, I carefully take two of our three remaining cans of soup and set them beside the tent, along with half of our matches and one of our three energy bars. The milk powder is almost gone, and I leave it behind as well. As an afterthought, I place several chlorine tablets inside the tin, then look regretfully at the rest of the supplies. I cannot afford to leave anything else behind.

She has the tent and her poncho, and now food as well. Everything else I must bring. I have given her a fighting chance, risking starvation by leaving the little that I have. Anything else would be too much.

Tucking the sleeping bag, last can of soup, broth, and first aid kit into the backpack, I zip it shut. It is limp, and considerably lighter than when I carried it from the bloodbath.

Tying my poncho firmly to the side, I swing my pack onto my back, and attach my sword in its sheath to my belt.

It is cold in the early morning, and dew spatters the grass, wetting my bare feet before I can get my boots on. Mist caresses my face, dampening my cheeks. My heart feels torn in two, one part screaming for me to stay, and another reminding that for those I love, I must go.

I care for Zita as a fellow human being, a young woman thrown into horrific circumstances.

My love for Ebony is stronger.

Turning my back on the tent, I strike out into the dark, using my flashlight to augment the light of the fading stars. My clothes are quickly wet from brushing against the saturated bushes. The weather has been consistently warm since the first morning, the morning of the bloodbath, and hopefully I will dry as the sun comes out and heats the arena today.

The morning of the bloodbath.

When I saved her.

Her eyes nearly worshipped me as I pulled her to safety. What compelled me to go back is still beyond my understanding, only I could not bare to see another person die. She held me in adoration. As a savior.

The memory tears again, deep and hurting the most precious pieces of who I am.

Ebony told me in the Justice Building that she didn't want me back changed. But she also told me that she wanted me to come home.

I remember the shock-inducing fear that brought me to my knees, faint and trembling, once Zita and I were well away from the fighting. I cannot feel that horror again. That realization that I could have never seen my family nor the girl I love again. That my life could have been over.

Have I killed an ally? Zita cannot survive long without me.

Ebony. I picture her face before my eyes, and her image floods me with new strength and determination.

Yet her eyes accuse me at every step.

It is for her that I am doing this. She must know that I love her too much to let another tribute come between us. That I cannot stay with Zita now. That I have done all that I can. The risk of staying would be too great, and she was becoming much too...attached...to me anyway. Sometimes I thought - the memory brings a confused blush to my cheeks - that she believed she loved me.

She knows that the arena is a place where only one can live. I gave her supplies, and I fighting chance, when I could have killed or robbed her. Without me, she would not even be alive now. She must know that. She must forgive me.

Ebony too, will forgive me when I return.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

Birdsong floods the air, awakening me early. The pale golden light of the newly risen sun filters through the fabric of the tent, tinged slightly green. I shiver a little.

There has not been enough time for the sun to begin to warm the forest, and it is reluctantly that I unwrap myself from my poncho, pushing my tangled hair out of my face. It was braided back when we entered the arena, but after three days the braid hardly exists any more. Reaching up, I work the tie holding it together out and comb my fingers through the tangles. Rising from the floor, I go to the door and unzip it, holding back my hair with my left hand.

Wrapping the hair tie around it, I hold it back in a firm pony tail.

The ashes of our campfire still smolder on the ground, cold and mostly lifeless in the damp. Dew sparkles on every fern and bush, turning the damp forest into a fairyland.

"Danny, I'm up," I say, slightly puzzled. Normally he would be up, preparing breakfast, or telling me what the plan for the day was. Perhaps he is out foraging?

Something fills me with foreboding. He would have told me last night if he was planning to leave, wouldn't he? So that I wouldn't worry when I woke up. He did that once before, on the morning of day two.

Where could he be? Surely nothing can have happened to him.

I would have heard if there was a fight.

Or a cannon.

Wouldn't I?

I can be a heavy sleeper. Once there was a terrible thunderstorm that caused surges and upsets and knocked out the power capabilities of much of the district, all during the night. In the morning, I had to be told. No one could believe that I slept through it.

Fear wraps its panicky grip around my chest. What has happened?

I take a quick step out of the tent, and something falls with a clatter, rolling under my foot and nearly tripping me. Regaining my balance, I look down.

Horror and disbelief overcome me.

Piled neatly are three cans of soup, the last of the milk powder, and ten matches laid neatly on the top. Along with the tent, they represent a near-perfect division of our supplies.

I refuse to believe it. Danny saved me in the bloodbath. He wouldn't abandon me now, not when we're safe. He cares for me.

"Danny?" I call. Then, more frantically, "Danny!"

He is not here.

I run forward, desperate to find him. He cannot have abandoned me! He cannot have gotten far. Ah, I must find him. He saved me. He must care for me. I loved him for it! Couldn't he see that I never would have abandoned him? Then why would he abandon me?

Running faster, sprinting now, I force my way through the underbrush. When I reach the shore, the tide has covered the strip of sand and pebbles that joins the bigger island to the smaller where we camped. Ignoring the wet, I splash across anyway, the foot of water soaking me to the knees. I must find him before it is too late. I will tell him that he must stay with me, that I will die without him. He saved me! Without him, I am utterly lost!

Heaving myself from the water, I bound over the far shore and into the woods, calling and calling.

At last, my legs will carry me no farther, and I collapse beneath a tree, crying uncontrollably into my hands. It is not fair, that he would abandon me. I pose no threat to him, he must know that. And I needed him. He saved me in the bloodbath, why does he leave now?

Deep down, I know why.

He knew that what I felt for him came closer to worship, was more romantic than simple respect for a helper. He felt that he could not do me justice, and he left to keep me from further heartbreak. Can he not see that this cuts like the sharpest of swords?

He had his own life, back in District 3, and he wants to return. Vividly, I recall him telling about Ebony, the girl that he loves. How he missed her. How could I have been so foolish as to believe that he would give up his life, years of commitment, friendship, and tears, for a girl that could not help herself, a blundering and unskilled fellow tribute?

I know why I expected that.

Because he led me to believe it, when he offered his life for mine during the first minutes of the Games.

Spent and exhausted, my emotions finally more quiet, I realize how hungry I am. I ran like a blind fool, leaving all my supplies unguarded!

Leaping back to my feet, I head back the way I came with renewed urgency. I have to bite my lip to hold back falling into the pain of Danny's abandonment, but now I am angry. Getting me angry is a sure-fire way to produce determination. The one time mamà ever got me to help her on her rounds was when she accused me of being too lazy to come. The truth was that I couldn't stomach the pain and blood and suffering, but that one time I managed, for just a little while, as long as my anger still burned bright.

Danny's given me enough fuel to win the Games, I think furiously, stomping in the direction of our camp.

The sun is out and the day is getting hot a full hour later, when I am forced to acknowledge with renewed panic that I am lost.

 _I was a fool to run off so blindly,_ I berate myself.

My legs are tired and quivering with exhaustion. I still have not eaten, and the adrenaline and tears of the day have weakened me further. What can I do? I know that I must keep walking, and eventually I will find the beach, and I can follow the beach until I find the sandbar to get back to the small island.

Every fiber of me focuses on finding the shore. I must come to it eventually! So single-minded am I in my exhaustion, that I nearly stumble into the very arms of the careers before I notice the danger.

A startled cry snaps me to alertness, and I see that fifty feet in front of me, in a clearing, the careers stand around a boy.

I whirl, and run blindly away, covering my ears. I know that they will kill him, and I cannot bare to hear it. Run, Zita, run.

An agonized scream cuts the air, and I go faster, until I slam headfirst into another tribute.

* * *

 **Hunter Robinson, 17**

 **District 6 Male**

* * *

"Bring back something tasty!" I call as Byron leaves to forage. Our supplies are getting low, and we desperately need more. Byron knows considerably more in the way of what is safe to eat and what is not than I do, though he'd be the last to admit it.

"I will, perhaps there will be an ice-cream tree out there somewhere!" he calls back, disappearing among the thick foliage. We discovered while chatting last night that ice-cream was our favorite part of our stays in the Capitol.

Sitting down under the awning that we made using a tarpaulin and rope that were in our backpack, I pull absently at the edges of my fingernails. The Hunger Games are comprised of long days of boredom, interspersed with moments of frantic action. Naturally I prefer the boredom, as it means I'm still alive, and yet it is funny that a situation so deadly could be so monotonous. All the same, someone has to stay and guard the camp.

Standing up, I shoulder the pickaxe I got from the bloodbath - our proudest possession as an alliance - and walk up and down as though guarding a perimeter. Of course, the perimeter of our clearing is probably not much more than eighty feet. For fun, I decide to calculate it for certain.

Starting on one side, I walk across to the other, touching my foot to the other each step and keeping careful count. In the straightest line I can walk, the diameter of the clearing is about thirty baby-steps across. Divide that by two to get the radius, and I have fifteen. Two times pi times the radius equals the circumference of a circle, or you can just call it pi times the diameter. Since my diameter was thirty and pi is slightly larger than three, my perimeter that I will guard is between ninety and one hundred feet. I am working on how many times I will have to go around to walk a mile, when something strikes my leg and I buckle to the ground.

Pain shoots fiery lances from the impact, and looking down, I see a short, stumpy throwing knife buried in my lower thigh. Before I can process what to do or what this means, the careers troop from the woods and surround me.

The boy from Two balances another throwing knife in his hand, and he and the boy from One walk up to me, the girls from One and Four hanging back. Where are the other two careers? There haven't been any -

The boy from One brings his foot viciously against my leg, kicking into the wound and tearing the knife free. I scream, and scrabble for the pickaxe. A throwing knife pins my hand to the grass before I can reach it.

A sob tears my throat.

Both boys attack me, stabbing and cuffing and taunting until the abuse overwhelms me. The pain and terror will not cease, are unrelenting, and I long to be released. Some flicker inside of me refuses to die, refuses to let me slip away into the merciful arms of unconsciousness. I cannot get up, but I push, trying to rise to my hands and knees. A weight bears down on my back, and shove my face back into the dirt, stamping hard on me. My back snaps and white sparks blur my vision as I scream loud and long, no longer able to hold back. The boys roll me over.

One of them kicks me viciously over and over. No longer is there pain, only impact, again and again. I know they are destroying me, but I cannot feel it.

Warm wetness trickles from my mouth. A wheezing moan breaks from me. I am dying. For Meldin, a friend. I knew this the moment I volunteered. A desperate part of me never let go of the hope that I would return, but long ago, I knew that I would end in whatever hell the gamemakers had created. A fierce joy wells up inside me. I am _glad_ that I am here. They can kill me all they want, but they cannot kill Meldin. He will live, and his family will live, because of _me._

Finally, I can rest.

"You about done? Not so brave and heroic now? You gonna call for your ally? Get him killed with you? I knew you'd be a screamer."

They want Byron, but he is far away, finding food. A whimper escapes me with the strain of just breathing, but they still cannot find him. I exult that they cannot defeat everything. I may have screamed, been the show they wanted, but they cannot destroy the fact that all is not lost.

"Goodnight," Two whispers, raising his knife above my chest. Painstakingly, I turn my head to the side, away from death.

My eyes go to the trees, focusing on the green, the beautiful green sun-dappled leaves. Byron's face, wrung with pain, stares back. I am too tired to be shocked, or sad. I am almost safe.

"Go," I whisper, but it makes no sound. He knows what I mean anyway, and I see his eyes filled with pain.

I try to smile, and with one last look at the shafts of light between the leaves, I close my eyes and rest. The fight is done, and no one will ever hurt me again.

It is finished.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

Someone barrels hard into my midriff as I run forward, nearly knocking me down. I recoil sharply as another agonized scream rings through the air, prepared to defend myself. A moment later, I recognize Zita from Five, her mouth open and on the brink of releasing a shriek of terror and surprise.

Quicker than thought, I clamp my hand over her mouth and fall into the brush, pulling her down on top of me. My hand cuts off her scream before it can come, leaving only a short, cut-off squeak in the air. Her brown eyes are wide and terrified above my hand, and she twists wildly, tearing at the back of my hand with her own. Hurriedly, I wrap my other arm around her to restrain her, at the same time relaxing my grip slightly on her mouth.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I whisper. "The careers can't know we're here. I didn't want you to scream."

I feel her relax slightly, and, slowly, release my grip. She turns violently, glaring into my face, her black hair disheveled. Her face is stained with wet and her eyes red with crying. Pity overcomes me.

"Shhh," I say.

She goes limp, flattening against the found and lying there, eyes shut, taking deep breaths and shaking uncontrollably. "I thought you were one of the careers." Her voice is a breathless squeak.

I smile shakily. "I thought _you_ were."

A scream shatters the air, higher and more tortured than the others. Terror clutches my chest as I remember what sent me blindly running toward camp. "Hunter."

I spring to my feet, resuming my sprint, desperate to save my ally. Footsteps crunch behind me, the girl must be following. I do not care. I must reach the camp as soon as possible. A choking, broken cry comes from behind the bushes, and tears start in my eyes, but I can run no faster through the thick underbrush. Branshes whip my face and scratch at my arms. Stinging plants send my legs tangling as I trample everything in my path.

A boy's taunting voice cuts the air. "You about done? Not so brave and heroic now? You gonna call for your ally? Get him killed with you? I knew you'd be a screamer."

Someone whimpers.

Peering out from behind a tree, I look out over the camp that I shared with Hunter only this morning. The sight before me fills me with revulsion. I turn, to tell Zita not to look, but it is too late. She sits, a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and horrified, silent tears running over her face.

Looking back out, I see the boys from One and Two still crouched over my bloodstained ally as he lies on the ground, covered in wounds. Blood stains the yellow-green moss in a dozen places.

"Goodnight," Two whispers, raising a knife. Hunter turns his head away with a little moan, and for a moment I think he sees me as his eyes lock on mine. He mouths a word, and closes his eyes, not watching as death descends. I turn away as the knife falls, flinching as a cannon splits the air. Tears stain my face, though I didn't know I was crying. Wordlessly, I bend down and help Zita to her feet, leading her into the forest and trying desperately not to hear the laughter and congratulations of the group behind me. A hero lies in that clearing.

I was too late.

I failed him.

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

A cannon booms, startling me.

For three days I have seen neither hide nor hair of another tribute, and frankly that is a good thing. Allies seemed like a good idea before the Games, but now that the unceasing danger has caused me to jump at every sound, I want only to be alone.

My stomach growls, reminding me of the task at hand. Today I must find something other than plants to eat, or I shall become to weak to survive. Lambsquarters, dock-weed, dandelions and nettles are all good enough to stave off starvation, but I have to be in condition to fight or flee, not just to keep from shutting down. Eggs, meat, cheese, or grain are necessary. I can't live on water and plants alone.

A crow circles cawing in the sky, startled from its perch by the cannon. There was one other early this morning, before the sun rose. There are only fifteen tributes, myself included, left in the arena.

I walk on, not sure of what I will find. If worst comes to the worst, I shall ignore the advice of the trainers at the survival stations and eat raw shellfish. Perhaps it will make me sick, but they said that only happens about half the time, and even then shellfish poisoning isn't usually deadly. If only I had matches and could light a fire!

Fire drills will not work in the pervasive humidity, where I cannot find a stick of wood that isn't damp. Another week of the heat we've had, and perhaps something would be dry enough, but I don't have another week. A few more days and I will be easy prey.

Tiredly, I climb up a ridge thinly planted with tall maple trees, and more thickly with salmonberry bushes. I pick a few of the red and orange berries and eat them, rejoicing in the juice and sweetness but still craving something more satisfying. My legs shake with the effort of cresting the slope, and once I reach the top I have to stop and rest.

The crow still circles, cawing noisily. Another joins it, and the two perch above my head, sending their rasping calls lustily into the afternoon air.

Something about this rings a bell, but my brain, sluggish from nights of shivering and poor sleep and days of sparse food, refuses to pin down the meaning. Then it hits me, and a wave of hope assails me.

A nest. The birds must be defending a nest.

Looking up, it takes me only a few seconds to spot a trail of white droppings dripping down the trunk of a tall maple, and follow them up to a scraggly nest of sticks. The maple is tall, but climbable, especially for someone with years of experience in trees.

Leaping, I grab the first branch and use my feet to scramble up the trunk and onto the branch. From there it is only a matter of climbing to the next limb. They are farther spaced than I would like them to be, and I will be sure to have a time getting back down, but for now I set my sights on the nest and climb for it hard and fast. Reaching the limb with the nest, I scramble up and peer in.

The crows have gone wild, flapping and cawing frantically, but I am too big for them to challenge. Reaching into the nest, I pull out three eggs, leaving the other four for the birds. I can climb up and take them too, later, should the need arise. As it is, I cannot climb safely down with all seven.

Hungrily, I punch a hole in one of the eggs with a stick, pleased to see that it is not far developed and is edible. Putting the hole to my mouth, I suck the nutritious white and yolk from the hole, feeling instantly stronger. I am lucky that I found these, very lucky indeed.

Putting the other two in the pockets of my cargo pants, I climb down the tree, bound down the ridge, and then up the hill to my camp. The crows eggs have given me an idea of what to do with the nails I got in the bloodbath. Perhaps I can fashion them into a pair of climbing spikes, and then raid the nests of birds with ease. That way, a tree could be branchless and still accessible.

I duch under the drooping boughs of the hemlock that I found on the north end of the island, late on day one. It is thick and bushy, with a dry dusty area underneath, perfect for camping. The branches are regularly spaced and sturdy, ideal for climbing. Using my poncho, I was able to fashion a sort of make-shift hammock between two sturdy branches around forty feet off the ground. I have been careful to leave no sign of my presence, and when I am high among the branches it would take a keen eye to spot me, and a daring soul to climb the tree and attack me.

Swarming up now to my perch, I tie myself firmly to the hammock's edge knot with my belt, just in case. There would be no sense in dying falling from a tree when I have survived so long.

Settling in, I take out another egg and suck it more leisurely, eating from the horde of greens that I hid in the tree should I be forced to stay up here fro long periods of time. Evening falls, and I can see the beach from my perch, the sun lighting up the sky pink and purple and fiery orange. Perhaps, like the mountains and the mainland, it is only a projection. All the same, this whole arena reminds me of my home in District 7, and the sunset is the same appearance as ones that I watched with Luke back home.

A wave of homesickness washes over me, and there is a bitter taste on my tongue. I am still so far away, no matter how much this arena might be built for me.

Finishing the last egg, I lie down in the hammock, shivering slightly as a cold breeze begins to pick up from over the water. I can hear the waves clearly, and they help to lull me and calm my fear.

The anthem blares out, and two faces are projected in the sky. The boy from District 6 is first, followed by the girl from Twelve. Both were the last from their districts, and I sigh. Neither Six nor Twelve ever makes it far.

At the same time, my sadness cannot stay. Nothing can erase the fact that, with these two deaths today, I am only fourteen tributes away from going home safe, marrying Luke, and returning to the life I love. I will fight hard, no matter how unlikely I will be. The others can all kill each other. I will simply survive.

And in the end, I will prevail.

* * *

 **Eulogies:**

 **17th Place-Alabaster Parker-knifed in the back by Leon Rayner-Treachery never pays. Alabaster was determined to win by any means necessary, and while her determination was admirable, her cruel choice came back to haunt her. Alabaster's calculating mind was a joy to write, but she had neither the skills nor the temperament to win. Backstabbing might work for a time, but it's always regretted in the end. All the same, I laud her determination, and extend deep thanks to Wandering Princess for an excellent character.**

 **16th Place-Hunter Robinson-Hunter had a very un-detailed submission form. Some might think this was bad, but it actually gave me a lot of room to flesh him out myself. He grew into a real hero in the end, and I'm sure Byron will remember the few days they had as friends before he died. He saved the life of his friend, and he died a hero. Thank you to Nuna4ever for Hunter. If you are still reading, I hope you know that he was great to write, and feel that I did him justice.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story 2-Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore**

* * *

 _ **How do you feel about the alliances broken this chapter?**_

 _ **Where do you see the surviving members headed?**_

 _ **Final thoughts on Alabaster?**_

 _ **Final thoughts on Hunter?**_

 _ **What's up with the Zita and her new protector?**_

 _ **Predictions for Emmett?**_

 **A clarification: In case anyone was confused, Alabaster had a nightmare about a whipping that never happened. If you re-read the first POV of her reaping chapter you should remember :)**


	34. Life and Death - Day 5 Part One

**Here is Day 5. I apologize for the late update, but I think you all understand that SYOT's can't be our first priority in life, as fun as they are.**

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

The morning air is the warmest its been this time of day during the whole games. There is no sign of the mist or fog that has marred many days, and the sun is already out and heating the air.

I sip from my mug of hot chocolate, listening to the other careers chattering around me. They are in high spirits, with two deaths yesterday. One of them, the boy from Six, was killed by Mercury and Caspar. They laugh and joke bout him, his pain, his wounds, the way he died. I know that they are angry that he refused to call his friend to help him. They wanted two kills. All the same, the overall mood in the camp is exuberant.

Standing with a jerk, I toss the dregs of my drink into the fire, where they sputter away with a hiss.

Walking around the back of the cornucopia, I take a few deep breaths. I could not listen to them much longer. The honor of the Games is in proving that we are better than the others, in outliving them, in besting them in battle. Perhaps I have been something of a fool, to think I could change the mindset of the others. Past games have been just as brutal as they describe the things they did to that boy. Some have been even worse. I came to prove myself, to be a victor. Isn't that what the Games are for?

So many see them only as an opportunity to deal death, judgement, and torture without resistance. None of the others are trained. It's easy to disarm another tribute and then kill them at leisure.

All the same, I am here now, and I can't change that. I'll just have to soldier on through, and avert my eyes when things get nasty. What would Hazel think if I changed my mind now, gave up? She'd call me a coward, and rightly so. It was my own fault that I failed to recognize my teammates for what they are.

Focusing on the ripples that run around the base of the cornucopia, I steady myself.

A lance of sunlight refracts off the water, searing my eyes. I look away, blinded for a moment. When my vision clears, I see Eleanor coming back through the water in the canoe. She handles it well, for a girl from Two.

"Where were you off to?" I call, trying to get back into the rhythm of the Games.

She grimaces. "Call of nature."

"Oh." I say. Too much information.

Paddling the canoe up to the ledge beside the cornucopia, she jumps out, wincing slightly as she lands. She reaches down and massages her thigh once or twice before pulling the boat out of the water and stowing the paddle inside it.

"How's the leg?" I ask.

"Good," she says, actually looking happy for the first time in the Games. "I think even you, Dr. Garrix, will pronounce me fit to return to duty."

I laugh. "Dr. Garrix? Ha, you flatter me. In any case, you aren't limping. Want me to have a look now?"

"Alright," Eleanor sighs. "If you must."

After easing away the bandage that covers the injury, I peer carefully at the wound, trying to see whether it is healing or not. I don't know much about medicine or first aid, only a bit from being around the docks during injuries, and from watching past Hunger Games. To my untrained eye, she seems to be healing nicely. The slit in the skin where Phoenix's axe landed has scabbed over, though a few beads of fresher blood stain the edge, likely brought on by Ellie's stretched step from the canoe. There is no sign though of swelling or infection, and I smile.

"In my untrained and humble opinion, you're ready to go," I say.

She smirks. "Told you. You can't keep me down for long."

Before I can move to help her, she drags the canoe up onto the ledge by herself, and then skips around the edge of the cornucopia to join the rest of the group. I roll my eyes. Confidence is a good thing, but a little help never hurt a person. Eleanor seems positive allergic to a helping hand, especially one offered by a boy.

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

My stomach growls angrily, and no wonder. The food in the sack I took from the bloodbath was all gone three days ago, and I've had nothing but wild greens and berries since. Nettle and dandelion might keep you alive, but they aren't satisfying. I managed to knock down a few small birds with my sling yesterday, but the meat was tough and hard to cook, and birds are mostly bones anyway. They have to be very light to fly, and don't have an ounce of surplus flesh on them.

It's maddening.

The first few days in the arena, I saw deer nearly every time I walked somewhere. Now that I have a sling, they all seem to have vanished. It's like the gamemakers are playing a cruel joke on me.

Every tribute, in theory, enters the arena with a 1 in 24 chance. It's all a lie. The careers train for this and glory in the slaughter. Even without careers, the age discrepancies would make the games unfair. Did Cotton have a chance? Do I have a chance? Did my father have a chance, when the peacekeepers crept up behind him and put a bullet in the back of his head, leaving him lying behind a building for his daughter to find on her way to work? Did I have a chance when three years later, I was fired for my bitterness and insubordination?

The world is a cruel place, and our rulers are the cream of the cruelty.

It's not like I can do anything about it. I couldn't save Cotton. I can't even save myself. The truth is, I'm the only thing that to me is worth fighting for. I'm an animal, determined to survive. I'll never turn against the Games, or speak out, or curse at the sky as some tributes have done, seconds before the gamemakers inevitably shut off the camera. Cotton might have lived if I hadn't run headlong into the bloodbath. If I'd watched his back the whole way, instead.

Well, I guess that's what happens to people that trust me. They die.

I twist my sling over and over in my hands, then untwist it, twist it again, untwist, twist, untwist, until my knuckles are white and my breathing sharp and angry. Shaking, I release the cording and sit limply, wishing something would wander by. I must eat.

See? Selfish.

Something rustles in the brush, and my body tenses. Hunter's instinct, I suppose. Or killer's instinct.

A doe with rich reddish brown fur pokes her head from the underbrush, big gangly ears swiveling side to side. I sit perfectly still, begging her to step out just a little farther and into range. One step. Then two. _Just one more,_ I plead.

Behind her, a small head and neck step forward, shyly, tentatively. Her fawn.

I give a sharp click, and the doe turns to look at me. Springing to my feet, I whirl my loaded sling up an over, letting the cord multiply the force of my throw until the simple rock has become a deadly projectile. Without waiting to see where the shot lands, I load the sling again.

The initial shot crashes into the bushes and the doe goes bounding away. The fawn is slower to follow, and my next shot smashes into its neck and sends it tumbling to the ground. I am on it in a heartbeat, before it can limp away, and slit its throat. The animal dies instantly, sparing it the pain of the initial injury I inflicted. After it has bled out, I field dress it and get it ready to cook. Just looking at the tender meat floods my mouth with ravenous juices, and its all I can do to force myself to wait as I get a fire going, and, using my knife, strip the bark from a tree branch and spit the deer on it.

While I wait the long hours it will take to roast, I content myself with eating the juicy salmon berries that grow in profusion. They'll make a person sick to her stomach if she eats to many, but I know this and pace myself accordingly.

I can't decide whether my actions have impressed potential sponsors or not. I've proven that I can improvise, and that I can feed myself. I've also killed a baby deer.

I can picture the Capitol women now, weeping over my hard heartedness in taking the life of a baby. I snort. After all, they ought to be shocked that I killed a baby animal, right? It's not like they send children to die, right? The incongruity, the irony, of this situation, is overwhelming. I laugh to myself again, incredulously, moving forward to check if the meat has finished cooking. A stick of my knife shows that it has cooked all the way down to the bones. Taking it from the spit, I tear off a leg and bite into the meat with relish.

Venison is dry and tough, even from a young animal, but to me the meat is heaven. It means life.

I am starting on a second leg when I hear voices at the top of the hill. There's only one large alliance in this arena, and the thought fills me with terror. The careers. And one of them has a vendetta against District 8.

Hurriedly, not bothering to put out the fire, I throw the meat into the bushes, praying they won't find it. Snatching up my knife and sling, I run as quickly as I can throughout the brush to the hiding place I found on day three. Pulling back the ivy and morning glory that hangs down over the stump, I squeeze into the triangular space between the drooping ivy and the wood. The vines fall back into place, covering me. I'm glad that I left my sack, with my chlorine tablets and remaining paracord, hidden in this spot. If I'd brought them with me, I might have had to leave them behind.

Like the deer. Anger floods me. Finally, I was getting on top of the games. But I couldn't bring the animal with me, the careers might have smelt the meat and found my hiding place. A sling is no match for spears and arrows.

I tense, hearing the bushes thrashing as the group comes down the hill. I ease a rock from my pocket and slip it into my sling, leaning forward slightly so that I can see out between the vines. The entire pack, with the exception of the boy from One, is slipping and sliding their way down the steep hill about fifty feet away, making for the fire. It isn't smoking; I'm not stupid enough to burn wet wood, but the smell of burning must have been enough.

"There's no one here," Atalanta calls angrily.

"The fire's still going, they must have heard us coming and run. They're still nearby." That was the girl from Two.

"Good luck finding anyone in this underbrush," the Four girl snorts.

"It'll be like hide and seek," the Two boy retorts. "Spread out and search in all different directions. When you find them, holler and we'll put on a show."

"Think it's District Eight?" I hear the Four girl ask.

"I hope so," Atalanta says. Her voice sends chills through me. "I've been waiting for us to catch up with her."

"How come you hate her so much?" Four inquires.

"District 8 killed my brother in the Quell," Atalanta answers simply. "It's revenge. Nobody gets to make my district look bad, especially not when it's my family involved."

I bite my lip, nearly ceasing breathing as the girls jog past. Looking for me. Should they catch me, I guarantee that my death will not be pretty or quick. Images of past Hunger Games, and children carved to unrecognizable, sobbing pieces of meat, bring bile to my throat. My whole body is tense with terror. They cannot catch me. I cannot die. Not now, not when I'm figuring things out. I'm so desperate to live, the strength of my desire is almost startling. I never knew how much I wanted to live until now.

Shuddering, weak with relief, I sink back as the careers sounds fade into the distance. It is a long time before I can force myself to creep back out again and retrieve my meal.

By the time I muster the strength, the meat is quite cold.

All the same, every bite is heaven. I am alive. Alive, alive, alive. My mind and body sing with the word.

* * *

 **Leon Rayner, 17**

 **District 9 Male**

* * *

I can hardly walk. The world tilts at dizzying angles with every step, and the trees sway and bend in wobbling arcs. My feet are numb and leaden, my head pounds with ever step, and my breath is short and fast. No matter how large a breath I take, it is never enough, and I wheeze for air in short gasps.

The urge to simply lie down and rest is nearly overpowering, but I know instinctively that if I lie down I will never get up. Great shivers rack me, alternating with internal heat so intense that I feel as though my skin and face is on fire. Sweat makes my skin slick and cold as I stagger on, unwilling to give up and face the inexorable chase of death.

Curse Alabaster! The traitor, the snake. She has killed me, and I have killed her.

She is dead, stiff and cold, her body lifted out of the arena early yesterday morning. The sleeping bag she was in, soaked with blood, still lies in the clearing that was our camp. I could not stay, I had to move on, away from the foul stink of blood and death. She has killed me.

Her face was gray, her eyes wide and staring, when they lifted her out. Her arms flopped down lifelessly, and her head dangled back when the claw of the hovercraft clasped under her back and carried her up, up out of the arena. Her hair hung in ashy gold waves, and blood, so red and bright against the gray of her face and neck trailed from her mouth and dripped back down on our camp.

The knife handle, still warm from my hand, dripped with more blood, still warm from her heart.

I shudder, staggering over a log and moving blindly on. I try to press my hands to my eyes, to block out what I have done and to stop the horrible throbbing in my head, but my left arm is so swollen and painful that it will not move. I stagger on, ever on, the minutes stretching to hours, the hours to days. I have been in this arena a lifetime and more, always killing.

Her wide, frightened eyes, and the convulsive movement of her arm down to the knife sticking from her side...

I killed her.

She killed me.

A horrible sob rasps from my throat. Revenge did not save me, did not stop the inexorable streaks of my own poisoned blood as they crawled their way across me. No sponsor took pity on me. No wealthy benefactor, impressed by my terrible vengeance, attempted to save me.

My throat is raw with crying, and at last my legs refuse to move and I pitch forward onto my face, eyes closed.

When I come to myself, I try to push myself up. I cannot go down, I cannot die. A groan escapes me.

I cannot get up.

Rolling onto my back, I drag myself painfully until I am resting against a tall cedar tree. The fallen needles of its branches prickle against my thighs, and the fuzzy bark rubs against my raw, swollen neck. Gingerly, I lean my weight back on my right shoulder, not wanting the painful left one to touch against anything.

Tears run unashamedly down my cheeks. I weep for my death, and for the death of another, a death that I caused.

I can never catch a break, from anyone. Life has made a game of dangling opportunity before me, dragging it before my famished eyes, and then jerking it away at the last moment, like a child teasing a kitten with a piece of string.

Pain engulfs me, but I am too tired to scream, I just gasp at each new throb. Shivers rack me. Numbness creeps from my feet and up my legs. The trees continue to swim before me, rocking in and out of focus. Choking in pain, I turn my gaze to the sky.

The blue patches showing through the thick boughs of the cedar blur, but they are there.

Even though I am completely still, my breath comes in the painful gasps of someone that has run long and hard. My throat feels raw, and my chest aches with pain that occasionally sends out sharp lances and jabs of fiery agony. Every breath tears as I fight for air. The roaring of my pulse drowns out the bird sounds of the forest, the pounding beats of my heart echoing in my head. They are irregular, sometimes fast, and sometimes slow.

I know that the end is near. I am dying, the infection inexorably destroying me bit by bit. Soon, it will stop my heart or my breath, and it will be over.

I fix my eyes on those hazy patches of blue, trying to treasure every pain-filled moment that is left. I don't want to let go, despite the pain. My terror of the unknown is stronger. Life, so precious, has never been more worth fighting for.

But I am losing the battle.

Bitterly, I wish that I had stayed in District 9. I was a fool to think that facing a thieves punishment would be worse than the Hunger Games. I should have let the man report me. I should have turned myself in and let them cut off _both_ my hands, had they so wished, before deciding to volunteer.

My eyelids are so heavy. They drag, threatening to close, and my vision flickers. I can fight no longer.

I swallow once, and let them shut. It is easier, now. Letting go of my fear, I follow the dark waves that tug at my thoughts, letting the current drag me away. The water is warm, and with a sigh, I sink under.

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

Gritting my teeth, I raise my leg and bring it down.

One foot in front of the other, one foot in front of the other. I repeat the mantra over and over again, keeping my hand clutched tight on my bow, as I follow after the others. The hike down the hill, searching for the elusive tribute that lit that fire, has taken a terrible toll on my injured leg. I can feel blood seeping through the bandages right now.

I cannot tell the others. I cannot let them see that I am in pain. I am Eleanor Bradford, and I never, _ever_ give up. They'll say that I'm weak, a shrinking violet. And though they won't necessarily say it that way, they'll think it because I'm a girl.

Huh. Just because so many District 1 girls are simpering dolls doesn't mean I'm one! District 2 is a land of warriors, and I am an amazon.

My foot jolts down into a dip in the ground, sending my stumbling forward and twisting the already abused scab over my injury. I feel a tear, and the bandage suddenly begins soaking much faster. A gasp escapes me and my hand lies instinctively to the wound. Cyma hears me, and turns around, calling a halt when she sees my face.

I curse inwardly. I was too slow to cover the pain in my expression.

Wetness touches the tips of my fingers, and I draw them away red. Instantly, Atalanta is with me. She takes one look at the crimson stain seeping through the brown of my cargo pants, and her eyes narrow.

"Eleanor," she says tiredly, "why didn't you say something."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes. She straightens up, pursing her lips and sighing in frustration. "Enzo, take Eleanor back to camp. She obviously needs a few more days."

She is already walking away, but I won't go back without a fight.

"No," I snap. "At the very least, I can get back to camp myself."

Atalanta raises an eyebrow, the questioning gesture filling me with fury. "Really? Look at that leg. You're in no condition to -"

"To what?" I demand.

"What if another tribute found you? Limping like that, they could knock you down long before you could react."

Snatching an arrow from my quiver, I nock it to the string, bring my bow up, and fire, the whole sequence taking less than two seconds. The arrow flies past Atalanta's head and sticks vibrating in the trunk of an alder tree.

"I don't shoot this bow with my leg," I say acidly.

"Fine," Atalanta rolls her eyes. "I'm not going to fight you on this. But if you get killed, or lame yourself for the duration of the games, don't say I didn't warn you."

Triumphantly, albeit slowly, I turn and head back into the bushes.

"Hey," Enzo calls.

I look back, and he throws something. Reflexively, I reach out and catch it. My arrow.

"Don't forget that," he says. "There's only so many in your quiver. Never waste anything."

Perhaps he thinks he's funny or charming, but I'm still angry and I don't smile. I head back to camp at top speed, which isn't much.

When at last I reach the cornucopia, I can barely hold it together. My pant leg covering my thigh is soaked in blood, and I am shaking with pain and exertion. I hail Caspar, and he rows out in a kayak to pick me up. Just then, a cannon booms. I wonder if they caught the fire lighter.

Caspar tries to ask me how things went; who I think just got killed, whether the careers killed them, and on and on, but I am in to bad a mood to answer. Once in the camp, I busy myself preparing soup with the large bin of beans in the cornucopia. My return to kitchen slave and career jack-of-all-trades annoys me. I ought to be out hunting. I can't deny that I am a little frightened, as well. I haven't suffered any signs of infection, but my injury makes me the weak link in the career pack. What if they decide they're better off without me?

The beans are simmering on the stove, when I hear a far off howl. Soon, it is joined by others. I recognize the sound, and dismiss it. There were a few coyotes in District 2, living in the woods that covered the mountain that lies at the center of our district. Inside it is a complex network of tunnels and rooms and factories, where weapons are manufactured and peacekeepers trained. On the surface, the mountain is wild and still given to nature, and various smaller wild animals roam there at will. I even saw a coyote once, made bold by hunger, that was digging through someone's trash bin. It was small; considerably smaller than a dog, and I have nothing to fear.

The yips and howls come closer, until they seem to be only on the other side of the lake. There is a crash and rustle in the bushes, and a small girl, her clothes torn, her dark skin beaded with bloody scratches, and her brown eyes wild with fear, bursts from the woods. The coyotes are right behind her, and a moment later are out of sight in the forest.

I open my mouth to call Caspar to come with me and hunt them down, but I see him snoring away next to the fire and get an idea. If I kill this girl, it will gain me the respect of my fellow careers, and show that leg wound or no leg wound I am still a force to be reckoned with. It ought to help keep them from getting any ideas.

Taking my bow and quiver, I limp to one of the kayaks and launch it. Paddling quickly to the shore, I head in the direction of the yips as quickly as my injured leg will carry me. They don't seem to have gotten any further away. I guess that perhaps the girl has scaled a tree, and a moment later as I step out into a clearing my guess is confirmed.

Huddled fifty feet above the ground among the branches of a maple is the quivering form of the girl from District 11.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

Gasping for breath, my legs burning with exertion, I run blindly through the bushes with no thought but to stay a step ahead of the gaping jaws and lolling tongues only a few leaps behind me. The creatures pursuing aren't mutts, but seven coyotes are still plenty capable of mauling a small girl to death.

It's obvious what has been going on. I've been sitting around gathering food and taking naps for too long, and the audience is getting bored. If I can't prove myself a survivor, capable of surviving dangerous separations, I'll be eliminated as not an entertaining subject for television this late in the games. The gamemakers are obviously upping the ante now that most of us weak ones have been weeded out.

Of the less threatening tributes, only myself, the girl from Five, and the girl from Nine, are left.

I want to stop and rest. The coyotes are always one leap behind, no matter how fast or slow I go, but if I try to stop they leap for me, jaws snapping hungrily. They are chasing me somewhere, of that I am certain.

It seems as though I have been running before them for hours. I jettisoned my supplies ages ago, and now can only run on, pain surging through my legs and chest with the effort. Abruptly, the bushes end in mud. I barely have time to swerve to the side and avoid falling headlong into the water. Skirting the edge of the pond, I run on, but a death knell has wrung in my heart. The coyotes have pursued me to the cornucopia, to the sight of the bloodbath, where no doubt the careers are in wait and hungry for blood. The smell of smoke tells me that someone is home. Suddenly, with a snarl, one of the beasts leaps for me, fixing its teeth in the loos fabric covering my forearm and breaking the skin underneath.

I scream, and, losing its balance, the beast rolls away from me. There is another snarl, and I leap wildly for a branch as I pass beneath it, jerking my legs up and wrapping them too around the branch. I am not a moment too soon. The coyote leaps for me, its jaws snapping shut inches from my back. Shaking so hard that I nearly fall, I clamber up the tree, not stopping until I am high above the ground; so high that the branches make it hard to see the snarling, slavering creatures below me.

Sobbing with relief, I hug the trunk tightly and allow myself to go limp. For the moment, I am safe.

My face and arms sting with scratches, and my face tickles aggravatingly with perspiration. My entire body is soaked in sweat, and I prickle with the discomfort and heat. My face is flushed and hot.

My clothes, too, have suffered, and bare numerous scratches and tears. Twigs, leaves, and other forest debris cling in my hair.

The yipping below me stops, and there are scurrying sounds as the coyotes disperse into the bushes. I look up, suddenly apprehensive, and suffer a jolt of terror so severe that my stomach heaves and I barely escape throwing up. Wildly, I clutch at the branches to keep from plummeting to the hard ground below.

And the District Two girl who stands there, staring at me with a satisfied, knowing smile on her face.

Shaking like a leaf, I press myself to the trunk, trying to make myself as small as I can, wishing I could merge with the smooth bark. Sap sticks to my cheek as I hug the trunk for dear life.

Slowly, deliberately, she removes an arrow from her quiver and nocks it to the string. She raises the bow and takes careful aim.

I shut my eyes, a tear sliding down my cheek.

Every breath I take catches in my shuddering lungs. I treasure the air, expecting to die at any moment. The harsh sound of the string releasing hits my ear at the same time as something flashes through the branches beside my head, making a vicious hiss like a horsefly. The arrow stops abruptly, quivering in the nearest tree behind me.

Before the girl below me has a chance to reload, I am scrambling down the tree as fast as is humanly possible. The branches tear at my fingers, and sometimes I slip and fall several feet before finding a branch with a jolt. I hear the bow release again and jerk around to the other side of the tree. The trunk blocks the arrow and I continue my plunging, frantic descent. I drop the last ten feet and land with a painful jolt, but I can't stop. Rolling to my feet, I sprint to the woods, every fiber of my body screaming to go faster.

I push myself to my limit, but it still seems too slow. My tired legs burn with the effort. The start of the thick bushes, where I will be safe and hidden, is thirty feet away, then twenty, then ten, then -

The bow twangs, and I am shoved forward onto my face and rolled over with the slamming impact. I don't know where the arrow hit me, but I push to my feet and stagger on, sobbing as fiery pain envelops my left side and arm, running in jagged strips of agony that threaten to tear me to my knees. Tears and sweat soak my face and sobs tear from me at every movement.

Three painful steps, and I am in the woods.

Blindly, reeling like a drunk, I go deeper into the woods. There are no sounds of pursuit, and I sink gratefully to the ground behind a fallen log, shrouded in moss. Gritting my teeth, I lean back against it, and look down at the wound.

The arrow's fletching, a synthetic silver, sticks out more than a foot of me. I follow down the shaft to my body, afraid of what I will see. A sob, half relief, half pain, comes from my mouth when I reach the point.

The arrow is buried in the muscle of my left arm, almost exactly in the middle. Gingerly, I lift my arm and look at the back. The point protrudes six inches behind me. Carefully, I move the arm across my chest and cradle it, the fingers of my right hand probing at the tear in my shirtsleeve where the arrow ripped through. There isn't much blood; the shaft must be keeping it from escaping. Waves of heat roll from the point, seeming to burn my arm and even curl their tearing fingers around my side. Shaking, so weak that I cannot move, I lean my head back against the huge log, feeling the soft moss against the back of my neck.

I am alive.

Wounded, but alive.

She didn't kill me. There's an arrow in my arm, but she didn't kill me.

It's like I'm another person, watching myself, a small girl, her dark skin streaked in blood and dirt, her face scratched and teary, her clothes shredded to ribbons by brambles, and the unnatural, sleek shape of an arrow standing above her tired silhouette. I look up to the sky, where darkness is falling. The trees don't mask it as it darkens, and soon the anthem blares out, and the face of the boy from Nine stares down from the sky. I am too tired to feel anything.

A drop of blood trickles from the constant, burning ache in my arm. I do not dare to move it. In the morning, perhaps I will know what to do. Until then, I lean my head back against the mossy log and let the darkness shepherd me to sleep, where pain cannot follow me.

* * *

 **Eulogies:**

 **15th Place-Leon Rayner-blood poisoning and heart failure-Initially, I was going to have Alabaster place fifteenth, racked with** **guilt and killed by the careers. However, the drama of Leon discovering her plot and knowing what she had done was too much to pass up. Leon was a fun tribute. He was never my favorite, but I enjoyed writing him. I'm sorry that we never got to see him in action with his quarterstaff! That would have been a ton of fun to write. Treachery ended his games, and though he got his vengeance, revenge doesn't usually pay any better than treachery. Thank you Wandering Princess for Leon. If you're still reading, I hope you enjoyed him.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster PArker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story 2-Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore**

* * *

 **Ya know, I just noticed that I** **had Wandering Princess' tributes kill each other. I didn't notice I was doing that. Sorry about that! It was dramatic though...**

* * *

 _ **What do you think will happen to Capri?**_

 ** _Why didn't Eleanor come after her and finish her off?_**

 ** _Something that happened during this chapter is going to figure big in the future. What is it?_**

 ** _What is happening with Pixie's mindset?_**

 ** _Is it good or bad?_**

 ** _What will happen to Eleanor with her injury not healing well?_**

* * *

 **See ya in the reviews! My next update might not be for another week or so, unless I can do another this week, since I'm going to be gone and ridiculously busy next week.**


	35. Friction and Fantasy - Day 5 Part Two

**Hi there! Well, I'm back, and with me comes a chapter. I decided that for story clarity, and for the sake of several plot lines, Day 5 needed a second part. Also, I would like to note a typo within the last chapter. Normally I don't worry about them, unless they are inappropriate or highly confusing. This one falls into the latter category. I said that when Capri fell from the tree, she landed with "a painful holy". That should have been "a painful jolt". Curse you, auto-correct!**

 **Without further adieu, here is Day 5 Part Two.**

 **Oh, and please hop over to Josephm611's profile, and see if he needs any more tributes for his story. He's a great writer!**

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

Huddled fifty feet above the ground among the branches of a maple is the quivering form of the girl from District 11.

There's no way I can miss. Fifty feet is half of the distance at which I can shoot accurately. The upward tilt my shot will have to take complicates things, but the truth is, the girl is a sitting duck. Slowly, deliberately, I draw and arrow and nock it to the bow string. I kneel on one knee, tottering slightly as my injured leg bends, and raise the bow, centering the point of the arrow on the girl's chest. If I shoot at her head, it won't be a killing shot. No bow is powerful enough to pierce bone.

She turns, pressing herself against the trunk of the tree, and I adjust my aim. Her side is toward me, but that doesn't matter. An arrow between the ribs will kill, no matter what angle it comes from.

I release the string.

The arrow streaks from the string with a hiss, and flashes past the girl, burying itself in the tree behind her. I curse, and spring to my feet, scrabbling at the quiver to load another arrow.

The girl is coming down the tree, and fast, practically falling from branch to branch. I send an arrow at her, but she jerks around to the other side of the trunk as I release, and puts the tree between her and me.

The height of the tree threw off my first shot, and that puts me at a distinct disadvantage. Now, she is a moving target, as desperate to survive as I am prepared to kill her. The hunt is on.

With a smile, I draw another arrow, not rushing this time. I'll wait til she is on the ground, presenting a clear target. She reaches the lower branches, glances at me, and sees my aim rising lazily to center on her. Her eyes widen with deeper terror, wider than I even thought possible, and she just lets go. I can hear the breath jolt from her lungs as she hits the ground, but she roles forward and to her feet and heads for the edge of the clearing at a stumbling run.

Caught by surprise, I readjust my aim. I cannot let her reach the forest. On an injured leg, I would never catch her. I have time, though and she is still ten feet from the tree line when I let the arrow fly.

I give and exultant cry as the arrow strikes home with a smack and spins her around, but the cry turns to anger as she staggers to her feet and lurches into the woods. I loose another arrow at the spot where she disappeared, but there is no sound of pain or impact, and I know I missed. Cursing, I prepare to follow, knowing it will hurt. Blast the gamemakers! Couldn't they have put us in decent jackets? It was the poncho, fluttering and distorting her outline, that threw off my aim.

Pain lances at my leg, and it begins bleeding again, as I jog into the woods. The bushes are thrashed down and the fir needles on the ground churned where the girl ran through. I can track her easily enough. Then, I hear a panicked cry behind me.

"Eleanor! Eleanor!"

Whirling, I run back the way I came.

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

My eyes flutter open, and it takes a moment for me to remember where I am. My hair long ago left the careful spikes it formed when I entered the arena, and now hangs in my eyes, obscuring my vision. The arena! That's where I am!

I push the offending bangs out of my face, and look around me blearily. The water sparkles dazzlingly in the sunlight, and I see that my arms are pink with sunburn where I had rolled up the sleeves. Why did the gamemakers send us in in turtlenecks, if the first day was to be the only cold one of the games. I'd say it's been consistently over 70° since the bloodbath ended.

Despite the sun dying the trees a deep green-gold, something feels wrong. I can't figure it out. Then, I realize: It's too quiet.

Instantly I am wide awake, reaching over and grasping a knife. Throughout the games, there have been constant birdsongs, and frogs croaking in the water. Now, all the animals are silent.

I get to my feet, holding the knife in front of me, and being sure not to keep my back turned to any one place for too long. The pot of beans that Eleanor prepared before I fell asleep simmer on the fire, beginning to smell deliciously. Where _is_ Eleanor?

"Ellie?" I whisper. Then louder: "Ellie? Eleanor! Eleanor, where are you?!"

Something rustles in the bushes and I catch a glimpse of gray fur as a lithe body about three feet high slinks off into the bushes. Mutts. Where is she?

"Eleanor!"

Then, finally, someone calls back and I relax a little. "Caspar? Caspar, what's wrong?!"

Ellie charges from the bushes and splashes into the water, arrow on the string, bow raised and at the ready, searching for an enemy or an attacker. When she sees me, standing, alone and seemingly unharmed, her eyes narrow.

"Why did you call me?" her tone is combative. "What happened?"

"Where _were_ you?" I counter, put off by her anger.

"I was about to finish a kill," she says, voice dripping disdain, "when _someone_ started screaming as though the entire thirteen other tributes in this arena were torturing them to death!"

"What was I supposed to do?" I holler back. "I wake up, and you're gone, and there's mutts stalking the bank!"

"Mutts?" Now Ellie laughs. "Those were ordinary coyotes. It would take ten of them to kill an unarmed person, and a whole lot more to kill an armed, trained career. For your information, since you seem to have _slept through_ the action, they treed the girl from District 11, and I shot her. I was following up, closing in for the kill, you might say, when your panicked cries interrupted me and sent me running back as fast as my bleeding legs could carry me. Now, I'm standing in the water, drenched to the waist and losing blood. Very masterful of you, I must say. It takes talent to let a fourteen year old escape two careers."

She blames me. The creature has the nerve to blame _me._ Why didn't she wake me up, I'd like to know. "Why didn't you wake me up?" I ask, my voice showing what a stupid decision she made. "You blame me, but if you hadn't been such a proud fool, you could have sat back and relaxed while I knifed the little insect. But no. You had to prove yourself. You had to prove that you were somehow better, and could do it without help."

I am angry now, and not considering my words, or the fact that I likely wouldn't have gotten help either. Pride is everything to a career. Now, Eleanor's has been deeply stung by my words.

"Now look here," she shouts. "Just because I'm injured, or from District 2, or a _girl,_ doesn't mean you get to throw whatever insults you feel like my way. I've slaved away, cooking for you and guarding your camp while you go gallivanting off with the others. You've got two kills, so you think you're so glorious. Why should you think that? You killed a shell-shocked thirteen year old that froze in place, and a whining fifteen already half bled out. Some bragging rights _you_ have! I, wounded on the first day, was about to hunt down my own tribute, and was doing just fine until you had some little nightmare and woke up screaming for mommy!"

"Screaming for mommy? Hah! That's what _you_ did when District 7 near cut off your leg. Being wounded makes you better than us? Because you're 'fighting through the pain' or some such rot? How about not getting wounded in the first place, princess?"

"Princess?! I'll kill you for that," she snarls, lunging forward.

Suddenly, I realize I've miscalculated. This could be a terrible mistake. Thinking quickly, I drop to the ground, and not a moment too soon. An arrow cuts the air three feet above my head, hits the cornucopia, and defects into the ground, slapping into the mud a few inches from my hand. I jerk away, then lie still. Carefully, hands up, I climb to my feet. _Placate her, Caspar. If you break the career pack, the others will have your head._

 _Well, I'm rather fond of my head, I'd better try to calm her down._

"Easy!" I say. "I didn't mean to make you so angry. I just woke up, and you weren't here, and I was afraid something had happened to you. Or might happen to me. Like you said, I don't know much about coyotes. I thought they were mutts. I can't fight a whole pack of creatures designed only to kill!"

Inwardly I seethe as I try to sound like I was just frightened, for her and for myself. I'm used to lying, but only for my own benefit. Not lying to intentionally make myself look like a nervous fool. Eleanor seems to accept it, though, and she lowers her bow, the realization that she almost broke the career alliance sending her face pale. She looks a little sick. Well, she should be. She nearly killed me.

Moving carefully, she retrieves her kayak from the bank and launches it, returning to the cornucopia. Stooping, she retrieves her arrow from the mud, and sets her weapons down just inside the mouth of the horn.

"Sorry," she says finally, refusing to meet my eyes. She's proud, and even saying the word obviously takes immense effort.

"Apology accepted," I say, and offer my hand to shake. She takes it and gives a short nod, before breaking away and going over to stir the beans for dinner. She seems to be allergic to any form of perceived weakness on her part.

 _Apology accepted._ Now that's a lie I'm used to telling. Her insults cut deep, and I'll certainly be remembering them once there are fewer tributes, and higher stakes.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

We reach the cornucopia as the sun sinks behind the trees and twilight descends on the forest. Climbing into the canoe, we paddle out to the small, muddy island that is the ledge surrounding the golden horn, the island that has been our home for five days. A fire burns brightly, sending orange streaks out over the water. The smell of cooking wafts out to greet us.

Disembarking, we pull the canoe and kayak out of the water and stow them upside-down on the ledge.

"Who'd you kill?" Caspar asks. "We heard a cannon."

"Did you catch the person you were hunting earlier?" Eleanor inquires excitedly.

 _No,_ I want to snap, _we didn't kill anyone. In fact, we didn't see a single solitary soul, and we're one of the sorriest excuses for a career pack in Hunger Games history!_

"Didn't kill anyone," I say shortly. "Don't know who died."

At that moment, the anthem blares out. Automatically, we all turn our faces to the sky, seeing who it is that we no longer need to hunt. The boy from Nine looks down morosely on our little group for a few seconds, before disappearing. That's strange, he seemed to be one of the stronger ones. Perhaps the boy from Three, or the girl from Eight, managed to take him down. They both got suspiciously high training scores, and we don't know what weapons they use. I remind myself to tread carefully while hunting.

"Eat up!" Eleanor calls, beginning to ladle portions of beans and meat from the saucepan above the fire. I am the last one, and get the scrapings from the bottom of the pot. They smell suspiciously of woodsmoke, as though the food burned to the bottom of the pan. I want to turn my nose up at it, but I suppose I've had worse. The week of dining in the Capitol before the Games spoiled me.

I loved it, though. Gave me incentive to be victor. Roast turkey and marmalade rolls 24\7, please. I wonder if boxing would be an acceptable talent to show to the Capitol? They'd probably love it. The victor who couldn't stop fighting.

I feel better than I have in weeks, I think, ladling great spoonfuls of beans into my mouth. No bruises or scrapes from fights, just hard muscles and hard living. I'm glad I volunteered. I swallow the last few mouthfuls of soup, feeling a twinge of pain in my throat as something pokes painfully on the way down. I taste a little blood, and, exploring with my tongue, discover a cut along the inside of my cheek. My district partner must have put in a cut of meat that still had bones in it.

Across the fire, I see her now, talking to Atalanta. Their voices are lowered, but I've always had good hearing, and can just barely make out the words.

"How's the leg?" Atalanta asks.

Instinctively, she reaches down and rubs it. Then realizing what she did, she shrugs. "Not too bad. I guess I just overdid it a little."

Atalanta seems to know she's downplaying the injury, but she doesn't comment. "Don't worry about it. Take your time."

"Yeah," Eleanor says, but she doesn't sound convinced. This is backed up, when she adds: "I was thinking I'd go out and hunt the girl from Eleven tomorrow."

Atalanta's eyebrows rise. "Why? She never struck me as much of a threat."

"She was hanging around over here this afternoon," Ellie answers. "I shot at her, and I think I scored a hit, but she ran off before I could launch a kayak and go after her. I can track her, though, I'm nearly certain."

Atalanta nods once. "Good idea. Go ahead."

Ellie nods back, and Atalanta rises and goes to sit down by Caspar, leaving Eleanor to finish her food in silence. She's always quiet. I don't think she's very social. It's a strange thing. She looks up and catches me staring, holding my gaze levelly until I roll my eyes and drop them. Why is she so conscious of her every move? It's like she feels guilty about everything she does. Well, that's all to my advantage. People that are insecure are easy to exploit.

After days, and a few nights, of traipsing about the woods, my body cries out for rest. Sighing, I get up and rinse my bowl off in the pond, then turn in early. Lying in my sleeping bag, I probe the hole in my cheek with my tongue, absently exploring the ragged edges of the cut. I fall asleep with the taste of blood on my tongue.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

Crunching at the last energy bar as I pace back and forth, I glance up at the sky for what feels like the fiftieth time. There was a cannon a few hours ago, around midday. Guilt gnaws at me like an animal. What if it was Zita? She has no skills when it comes to defending herself. What if the careers found her? They'd torture her to death...

Horror assails my mind, and I shut my eyes to block out the images of blood and death that haunt me. Somewhere along the line, the tortured face in my mind turns into Ebony's. The worst torture, for her, would be if I did not return. I know I made the right decision, but all the same I cannot bare to think that someone is dead as the direct result of my actions. _I'd be dead with her if I'd stayed. I can't fight the careers any better than she could._

The excuses sound pathetically hollow.

 _Stop it_ , I chide myself. _You don't even know that it was her_.

I have a terrible feeling that it was.

Tearing vengefully, I set my teeth in the bar and rip off another bite, crunching it viciously. My pacing steps increase in speed. Around and around and around under the thicket of bushes that is my home for now. A new anxiety assails me. This bar is the last of the provisions I took from the bloodbath.

Shaking from nervousness, the simple tension of living every moment knowing it could be your last, I lie down on the mossy ground. A stick pokes into my back and I roll over, eating the last of the bar. No better. Now there is a pebble pressing into my side. I pull it out and throw it out into the bushes, as far and hard as I can. The sky above me continues to darken, and I can hear birds settling down for the night all around, little flutters in the bushes.

There are berries on these bushes, berries that I recognize as huckleberries. They are edible, but tiny, and it takes an awful lot of them to be full. In fact, just gathering them probably burns more energy than what might be gained by eating them.

I roll over again, and am back atop the infuriating twig. Grabbing it, I sit upright and crumble it into tiny pieces, then lie back down with an annoyed huff. Toying with the moss growing beside me, I try to settle down. I am alive, and I have food, I won't starve, that's what counts, right?

I can't make myself believe it. Every time I shut my eyes, I remember Ebony.

 _"I'll try, Eb, really I'll try," I say. "But I'm not going to lose myself in there. You wouldn't want me if I came back…changed."_

 _"You're right," she says, her voice small. "But try to come back if you can. Please, please try. If you do…" she hesitates and bites her lip, "I'll sail with you to the end of the world."_

I roll over, and close my eyes again.

 _"Don't look, Zita, just start pushing toward me. Come on, don't look back. We have time, but you need to help me out. You can't thrash. Thrust your legs down and you'll hit bottom eventually. Then push."_

Tears sting my eyes. I betrayed her. I _killed_ her. Sitting up, I grind my knuckles against my eyes.

 _Life is a river  
_ _Flowing to the sea  
_ _Will you  
_ _Take this journey with me?_

She said she'd sail with me to the end of the world. Ebony would sail with me to the end of the world.

 _In a boat  
_ _Floating gently  
_ _I'll bend down  
_ _Pluck you a lily_

I can picture it, the waves on the water, the flowers, the boat. All the things we never could actually do in District 3, but that haunted our dreams at night. The beauty of the natural world, untouched by smog or soot or evil. There is only one thing more beautiful than the river and the flowers.

 _The moon is high  
_ _The water still  
_ _I'll kiss you there  
_ _And be as one, we will_

The feel of her lips on mine, and the scent of her hair. That was the one thing more beautiful. We were one being, and we loved each other. Now that we are separated, each of us is only a half of the new, beautiful whole we had found together.

 _"Try to come back if you can. Please, please try. If you do…I'll sail with you to the end of the world."_

I am well and truly crying now, great tearing sobs from deep inside. I have to get back. I must.

 _"I'm not going to lose myself in there. You wouldn't want me if I came back…changed."_

I am already changed. I have abandoned someone, broken her heart, left her to die alone, unaided. I am a coward. I did not leave for Ebony, I let because I was afraid. Afraid for my life. Afraid that Zita would love me in a way I could never love her. No, she would have listened to me. She saw my interview, when I told Ebony I would come home. She would never try to take me when she knew. She was _good,_ a better person than I, by far.

I am a coward. If I truly loved Ebony, I would have kept my promise: not to come back changed. Instead, I have broken the only thing that held us together.

"I am sorry, Ebony," I say to the sky. "Forgive me. I'm sorry. I _love_ you."

Suddenly calm, I begin to sing the song that runs through me every minute. The song I used to say goodbye, and the song that will join us, even if we never see each other again. I begin to sing the song, but somewhere, the words change, though the tune is the same.

 _Life is a river  
_ _Flowing to the sea  
_ _Your face  
The boat that carries me_

 _Like a raft  
_ _Floating gently  
_ _Your memory  
_ _Supports, sustains me_

 _Snags may grasp me  
Seek to entrap me  
_ _For I am broken  
Sorely lacking_

 _But your love  
_ _Can bring me home  
Don't forget me  
I'm not alone_

I try hard, very hard, to convince myself that my words are unbreakable truth. But, I know that when I abandoned Zita, I did something evil. I played into the hands of the very ones that I hate, the very ones that separated me from Ebony. I gave into fear of death, when what I should fear is living because of inflicting death. I have killed, and I cannot forgive myself. The tears still run down my face.

I put my face on my knees and hug my arms around myself, trying somehow to fill the desperate, aching emptiness inside me.

The anthem startles me awake. I did not know that I was asleep. Exhausted with misery, I must have drifted off. The music soars to a pitch, and I raise my face, bile rising in my throat. I cannot face Zita. I killed her, I killed -

The boy from District 9 stares down.

I fall back, fighting against the urge to give a shout. She is alive. It's not too late. I can redeem myself. I have not killed her. She is alive...

My heart sings with the word. It's not too late. Once again, I have something to fight for. I am alive. Zita is alive. And that means that Ebony's love for me is still alive.

With that knowledge, I can face anything.

 _"I'll sail with you to the end of the world."_

* * *

 **Eulogies:**

 **15th Place-Leon Rayner-blood poisoning and heart failure-Initially, I was going to have Alabaster place fifteenth, racked with** **guilt and killed by the careers. However, the drama of Leon discovering her plot and knowing what she had done was too much to pass up. Leon was a fun tribute. He was never my favorite, but I enjoyed writing him. I'm sorry that we never got to see him in action with his quarterstaff! That would have been a ton of fun to write. Treachery ended his games, and though he got his vengeance, revenge doesn't usually pay any better than treachery. Thank you Wandering Princess for Leon. If you're still reading, I hope you enjoyed him.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster PArker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story 2-Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore**

* * *

 ** _Thoughts on the careers? We've been seeing them a lot lately._**

 ** _Thoughts on Danny?_**

 ** _What does his mental state mean for him and for his Games?_**

 ** _What might it mean for Zita?_**

 ** _Who is your favorite tribute currently?_**

 ** _Who would you like to see more of?_**


	36. Resolve and Reconciliation - Day 6

**Day 6 has arrived...**

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

The log that hid and supported me through the long night has become an enemy. Every bone and muscle in my body aches as I open my eyes, finding myself half-sitting, half-lying, my neck kinked against the mossy bark. I try to sit up, but my cold stiffened body refuses to move. For a few minutes I lie still, watching the dew drip disconsolately from the branches above my head, landing wet and chill on my face.

The pain in my arm has faded somewhat, from the harsh, burning throbs of last night to a dull ache. Perhaps it is the cold. The arena has not been this chilly since the bloodbath. Misty rain fills the air and floats in depressing curtains through the forest.

Trying again to sit up, I manage to struggle into a position with my back jammed against the log, leaning slightly forward. I begin to relax, but I feel a thousand years old as every movement creaks and hurts. The fletching of the arrow brushes a twig in front of me and I gasp in pain. Shoving my legs down against the ground, I brace my right hand on the tree trunk and heave myself to my feet.

My knees twinge as they straighten and un-stiffen. I lower myself to a sitting position atop the log, and swing my legs back and forth, trying to get the blood flowing again.

For several minutes my legs burn as though a swarm of bees are crawling and stinging, but at last, with a final ache, they return to normal. I think I could walk, if I had to. My stomach growls, and I feel a little dizzy. Probably from the trauma, the lack of food, and being forced to spend the night out in the cold. I long for a big bowl of porridge, a soft mattress, and warm sheets. Silk, like the ones in the Capitol.

But I can't have silk sheets. Anything I get in this arena has to be earned or made. It was the same back in District 11. Nothing was free.

I think of the adventure I had the morning of the Reaping; going out to the fields to steal blackberries with Susan, and Dawn and Fawn. It seems a million miles away. All of District 11 does, really. My mother and father. Little Delilah. Our house. The rusty water pump in the town square. Even the dust and the never-ending burn of the sun as we slaved away in the fields are preferable to this strange, alien world I find myself in.

Here, the weather fluctuates violently but plants grow in profusion, and, like this morning, occasionally mist takes over the forest and turns it into a ghostly world.

If I want to get back to my own home, I will have to fight for it, and fight hard. I cannot fight with an arrow sticking a foot out to my side. Experimenting, I try to move my arm out, away from my body. It obeys my thought, but something tears in my side and I feel hot blood trickle down over my ribs. What was that?

Using my right arm, I manage to work most of my body out of my poncho. I can't get it off all the way though, since the arrow went through it and it is now pinned to my arm. I set it on the log beside me to keep it from dragging at the wound. Then, I look down at myself.

The gray turtleneck of my arena clothes is dirty and torn from days of foraging, but there is a particularly nasty rip over the left side, across the ribs. The edges are stained with blood, some dry and old, but now coated in fresh, bright red stains. The arrow must have gone through my arm at an angle, and the point penetrated my chest. It doesn't seem deep, though, and the blood is already slowing. I heave a shaky sigh of relief.

But that's a trivial concern. I must remove the arrow and treat the wound, or I will die of infection. I can't continue around the arena with the arrow shaft grating against every bush and twig, and tearing my arm further. However, the head is barbed. If I try to pull the arrow out, it will catch in the muscle and wreak havoc. The cruelty of the design sickens me a little. If I leave it, I will die of infection, if I pull it out, it will tear me horribly in the process. There must be another way. I try to think, but my mind is slow with pain and hunger.

The fact that I am even thinking clearly at all amazes me a little. I never would have known I had it in me, I think with a little giggle. The laugh sounds vaguely insane. At the same time, I want to cry for my lost innocence.

An idea strikes me. Experimentally, I reach out and touch the fletching. It gives. I press harder, and the slim rubber pieces bend. Of course. Synthetic fletching is designed to resemble feathers. It is strong, but fragile with the right pressure. Perhaps I can pry the fletching from the shaft, and pull the arrow all the way through, rather than drawing it back out? My fingernails are overgrown, and could surely peel away the plastic.

Reaching around, careful not to move my wounded arm, I work the fingernails of my right hand under the rubber and begin to peel the fletching away. Occasionally I press too hard and the shaft moves, paining badly. However, it's working, and after a few minutes I am staring at the shaft, now bare.

I take a deep breath as my stomach twists into a knot. Can I do this? It will hurt badly. The mere thought of the pain I will inflict on myself makes me want to vomit.

I must. There is no other way.

Shaking slightly, I place my left hand firmly on my knee and straighten my arm. Then I reach around with my uninjured hand and grasp the shaft where it emerges from the wound. Pulling firmly, I begin to draw it out. It does not want to budge, held in by the crusted blood and scabs. Steeling myself, I give a yank. Abruptly, the shaft frees itself and cleaves through, tearing at the healing wound and sending fresh blood oozing down my arm. Tears sting my eyes and my heart thumps wildly. One more yank and it will be through.

Biting my tongue, I close my eyes and pull. Hard.

With a last tear the arrow is free, the rough nock damaging the tender flesh. Blood runs freely down my arm, and I press my hand to the wound, doubling over and sobbing freely. It's done, I tell myself. I'll be all right now. It's done.

Sticky blood covers my hand and squeezes through my fingers. I need to bandage the wound, but all my supplies were left at my camp, far to the south, when I ran from the coyotes' attack. I would bleed to death long before I could reach it, even if I had the strength to walk that far. I must have sponsors. I survived the bloodbath. They must be able to afford a bandage?

I know I'm deluding myself. I've watched the Games, as we all have, and I know as well as anyone that hardly anyone gets sponsored without making a kill.

Even bandages are wildly expensive.

Usually, Eleven's tributes are good survivors and make it far. But we virtually never win. I can't count the number of times I have seen our tributes bleed to death from what should be non-lethal wounds, killed by their own inability to kill, and by the unwillingness of the Capitol to forget our rebellion, and support our tributes.

This year, I will be the one that died, who easily could have lived.

No, I tell myself. I won't die. I can't die.

But the racing of my heart and the fluttering of my pulse betrays me. I am scared. And I _will_ die without help.

"Harvyst?" I ask, knowing that my fight for life must be on camera right now. "Harvyst, can you help me out here? I know I can get through this, but I need something to work with."

I listen for the tell-tale beeping of a parachute, but the sky stays silent.

A sob tears my throat. I can't die! Not now. I can find a way to survive, I will, I must.

Anything in this arena will likely cause infection. It is common in District 11, and I've seen it before. That and tetanus. It only takes a small wound: A hand or foot damaged by harvesting equipment. A few days, perhaps a week, and the person will be dead. I don't want to die like that. Better to bleed to death here and now, quickly.

But I have to survive. I can't just give up! Heart thumping, holding my injured arm across my chest, I put my knee atop my poncho to hold it down and tug, hard. The plastic won't budge, won't tear. Crying in fear and frustration, I tug harder, then with both hands, sending blood pulsing faster down my arm with the effort. My arms shake, and the plastic turns a little white at the edge as it stretches, but it refuses to tear.

I spread it out, shaking, weeping, desperate. And there is a hole, where some blessed twig tore it as I ran.

Quickly, I put my fingers through the hole and pull out. It hurts to tug, but the hole widens and widens, and, at last, reaches the edge. Ripping to the side and then down, I tear a strip from the rubbery cloth. Pushing up my sleeve, I grab fistfuls of wet leaves from the salmonberry bushes around me, using the dew and the misty rain to wash the blood from my skin. Taking a big handful, I press it onto the wound and lay the strip of poncho over it. Then I take another handful and put it on the other side of the arrow-hole, wrapping the poncho tightly around my arm. It goes around three times before, using my teeth to hold the other side, I manage to tie an awkward knot.

The throbbing has returned with the stress of movement, but my heart slows and steadies itself. I'm not helpless anymore. Watching, I see that no blood makes it out of the bandage. It seems to have stopped. Gingerly, I touch the gash on my side. It too has scabbed over.

I pluck berries from the bushes around me and eat them. It isn't much of a meal. But I am not dead.

Infection still hangs like a sword above my head, but I refuse to consider it, as though not thinking it will keep it from happening. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, I tell myself. Until then, I am alive, and I intend to stay that way.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

The hard ground no longer bothers me. Perhaps it would, but the awful gnawing in my stomach eclipses all else. One loaf. A dozen apples. All I've had since the Games commenced.

Cold, driven deep into my bones by the wind and the mist, saps the last vestiges of strength from my limbs. I tremble ceaselessly, unable to get warm. It's a wonder I have the energy to shiver. I wonder if I shall live to see the dawn, or if I'll freeze first. I'm so weak, so starved for energy, that my body doesn't even have the strength to keep me warm anymore.

Dawn breaks, cold and clear, but the sun brings no relief, as it is still hidden behind a heavy pall of clouds. Sheets of mist drift over the arena in great grey curtains, shrouding the arena in damp drops. My throat burns with thirst, and I swallow weakly.

I brace my hands against the ground, and push myself to my hands and knees. Crawling, I make my way out from underneath the tree that has been my home for the duration of the Games. The air is fresher there, and I revive a little. Reaching the grass, I sit up and suck the dew thirstily from the drenched stems, crawling all through the wet grass, mouth open, until my thirst is somewhat slaked. I come upon a few dandelions, and devour them greedily. My stomach lurches a little, rebelling against the bitter greens, but they stay down.

It matters little. I cannot hold out much longer on leaves and water.

However, if I entire out of the field, my risk of being caught and killed increases greatly. The careers are unlikely to expect a tribute to be hiding under a few trees out in the middle of a field. Even if they did search for me, I would see them coming. At this point, that wouldn't matter. I cannot run.

My stomach growls miserably. It feels like a tight ball, so starved for real food, and bloated with living off plain air. I feel sick, shaky, and horribly tired. Unless I find food, and quickly, my days are numbered.

The horror of the careers keeps me from risking going out to forage. In District 9, I spent my days alone, unable to communicate with all but my closest family members. They worked in the fields and factories from sun-up to sun-down, and during the day I was left alone. During these interminable hours of solitude, I saw re-runs of Games after Games on the Capitol programming. I have seen tributes gutted, hung, burned, knifed, and beaten to death by careers. They are beasts, utterly devoid of mercy or human feeling. Falling into their hands would be worse than starvation.

Right?

With every passing day halving my rapidly failing strength, I'm increasingly unsure. Soaked and starving, my body cries out to me to find food before it is too late. Before I am too weak to move.

Wearily, I get to my feet. I will go and forage. If I fall into the hands of the careers, I'll be sure to make myself such a nuisance that they'll kill me quickly.

As I move through the field, my pants soaking with moisture from the waist high grass, I try to remember all I know about edible plants and where to find them. Dandelions and dock weed, lams quarters and nettles, cattails and mint...it's a long list, and should be easy to find, but so many of the plants carry caveats. Too much dock weed, and it can become toxic. Dandelion has...unpleasant side effects. And the topping concern: plants alone won't keep me going. I have to find something more substantial.

I make for the woods, reasoning that small creatures and edible plants both are most likely to be found beneath the shelter of the trees, where there is forage and cover. Most tributes, ones that can hear a person coming through the thick bushes, are most likely to seek cover there too. I shudder, pushing down my growing fear.

It is dark and cold under the trees, and water drips in steady globs from the branches. My face is already slick from the mist, so the water does not bother me, but the impact of each droplet makes me jump as though I have been struck. Finally, I pull up the hood of the poncho to shield me from the rain. The only problem is that the hood restricts my vision, making it difficult to see things off to the side. The fear is choking.

I try to place my feet carefully, avoiding twigs and bark, but naturally it's impossible for me to gauge how quiet I am.

The moss squishes gently under my boots, and, after a few minutes, I relax slightly and manage to look around a bit. The forest is beautiful. Tall fir trees stretch their great bare trunks up to the sky, their tops shrouded in mist. The forest floor is mossy and soft, only broken up by a few rocks, fallen logs, and numerous bracken ferns rearing their lacy fronds up from the ground. I am walking along the base of a valley, and on either side the sides slope up steeply, covered in undergrowth. The forest seems to be thicker up there, with more bushes and low-growing plants, than it is here in the valley.

My legs are still shaking, but I feel a little better. Getting up and moving has reassured me that I am not dead yet. I've still got a lot of fight left in me.

Suddenly, I smell smoke. I whirl and run, expecting at any moment an onslaught that will end my life. There is no sudden pain, and, diving behind a tree, I peer cautiously out.

The forest is completely still. Nothing seems to have moved, or be any different from when I entered. A few patches of moss, churned and torn by my fleeing feet, are the only difference.

Shaking even harder than before, overwhelmed with fear and relief, I sink gratefully to the ground, and crawl out from behind the tree, on all fours like an animal. Like an animal too, I sniff the air, trying to find the source of the smoke. Once I see him, I'm amazed I didn't notice him before.

The boy from District 3, hair tousled and full of pine needles, sleeps beneath the bushes at the top of the slope. Beside him are the embers of a dying fire.

Boldly, I dart past and down the valley as quickly as is possible in my weak condition. Looking back, I see that he hasn't moved. I am safe.

Briefly, I entertain the notion of attacking him, but quickly decide against it. I am unarmed, and even if I took him by surprise, he's a boy and therefore much more qualified than me in a contest of brute strength. All he'd have to do is throw me off, and then there'd be no one between him and the sword lying beside him. I don't much like the idea of facing a three foot blade with just my bare hands.

Turning away, I continue on into the woods at a run. The sooner I'm well out of sight or hearing distance, the better.

What with constantly checking over my shoulder as a precaution, the first thing I know of the pond is the sensation of my feet shooting out from under me, and falling hard on my face into water. I shriek, unsure of why I lost my footing, and my mouth fills with gritty silt. Jerking my head up, I leap to my feet, ready to fight, and then I am laughing, crying with relief, splashing the dirty water into the air with exuberant hands.

Stretching out at least a hundred yards is the prettiest, most secluded forest pond a person could ever dream of. To my right, a small stream feeds into it, swollen by the rain. I race over and, throwing myself on my face, drink deeply for the first time in six days. It's safer to drink from running water than it is standing water, that's why I took the extra minute to move to the stream.

Raising my face, I wipe a muddy hand across my mouth and survey the area. Cattails grow in profusion, and several tell-tale plops after my movement indicate that the pond is not ill-favored when it comes to frogs. Judging by the smell, skunk cabbages also lurk somewhere in the vicinity. A smile crosses my face. I can't wait to try out one of the many tricks I learned in training.

I go to find the skunk cabbages.

After finding a suitably sizable specimen, I tear off the largest of the leaves and curl it into a shape roughly resembling a cup. I tear off a bunch of long hairs from my braid, and, punching holes around the edge of the leaf, thread the hairs through the holes, pull them tight, and tie them in place. This makes the leaf stay curled into a cup shape. Then I dig a sizable pile of cattails, stuffing them into the plastic bag that held the long-gone bread loaf I took in the bloodbath. Then, I set to work catching frogs.

One mud-streaked, slimy handed hour later, I have a round dozen of them goggling among the cattail roots inside my bag. Each of them is a good inch long. I'm not sure exactly how to prepare them for cooking, but I'll figure it out. The point is, I have protein ready to be eaten. First, I'll need fire, and therein lies the problem. Suddenly, a plan, ridiculously audacious and yet unforgettable, enters my mind.

I can't kindle fire with a drill or with flint and steel, even if I could find the necessary materials, and I don't have matches. The only way I can quickly get fire is to steal it. The boy from District 3.

On silent feet, I creep back to his camp, relieved to see him still dozing. It's been a rough couple of days, I guess. It has for us all.

Darting forward, I snatch a burning stick, and make my way back to the camp under the trees, shielding my stick from the rain under my poncho. I run fast, not giving it time for the burning part to go out or drop off. There is still a small coal left when I reach the friendly shelter of my trees.

It takes time, but I manage to coax the coal into lighting a pile of twigs, and I gradually build on them until I have a respectable fire. Then I fill my skunk cabbage leaf with water from the bag, careful not to lose any of my by now quite stir-crazy frogs, and set the leaf beside the fire. To my delight, it works just the way the training staff said. The water inside the leaf keeps it from burning past the water line, and eventually, the water is boiling as merrily as the rusty kettle back home. Just thinking of it brings back memories of tea and days by the fire.

I kill the frogs with a rock, and boil and eat them whole, baking a few of the cattail roots wrapped in leaves. I eat until my shrunken stomach can hold no more, and curl up beside the embers, secure in the promise of more food tomorrow. I am wet, soaked, and miserable, but hope glimmers through like a candle that refuses to go out, even as the flame gutters and wavers.

It's been six days, and I have seen only one tribute. Perhaps the rest will simply kill each other. It's wishful thinking, but in the many games I've watched, stranger things have happened.

I've still got a lot of fight left in me.

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

The minute my eyes open, something feels wrong. Abnormal.

Mist blows in the mouth of the cornucopia, and the air feels cooler than usual, but there's something more going on. _I_ don't feel normal. Trying to get a better look at what's going on outside, and a clue as to my unease, I sit up. It's a mistake.

A tearing pain lances through my stomach, and I double over with a little wheeze, wrapping my arm around myself. Looking down, I move my arm away from the site of the pain and promptly gasp again as the release of pressure brings another rush of tenderness. I half expect to see blood staining my fingers or my shirt, but when I hike up my clothes, there is no sign of any injury.

Perplexed, I lie back down again, gritting my teeth at the discomfort the movement brings.

A moment later, Atalanta is standing beside me, concerned. "You all right, Mercury?" she asks.

"Stomach ache," I say as well as I can through my clenched jaw.

She nods understanding. "Might want to hang out with Eleanor today. Get feeling better."

"It'll pass," I protest. "I'll be fine in a minute or two."

She nods again, and returns to her position on watch.

However, as the morning progresses, I do not get better. It takes every bit of determination I have to make my way the few steps over to the fire for breakfast, and once there I have little appetite. My stomach is churning and uncomfortable, and the few bites of oatmeal I manage to swallow do nothing to alleviate the discomfort. I shift uncomfortably throughout the meal, and can't find a satisfactory position. The pain stays constant as long as I don't move, a dull ache with a sharp edge to it.

When the others go off to hunt, I am forced to admit defeat and remain behind with Eleanor. She is just as angry as I am to be left behind, and the two of us don't make much conversation.

I sit hunched dejectedly just inside the mouth of the cornucopia to stay out of the mist, which has now intensified to a light rain. Morosely, I chew at the ragged tear in my cheek from last night. I can practically feel sponsors draining away by the second: the brave warrior of District 2, sitting defeated by a stomach ache. I spit savagely into the mud.

I don't lose fights, not ever, not to anyone. Every pounding blow I ever took in any fight was designed only to egg me on and get my blood up, not to bring me low. That is impossible. I never lose. I fight.

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

For the third night in a row I got little sleep. The strain of the Games is telling on us all, and not least on me, as the leader of the pack.

I am plagued by uncertainty, knowing that as the days go by the smallest of decisions will become of paramount importance. I didn't set out to lead the pack. It's a dangerous position. The others all will be watching me, gauging my strengths and weaknesses, holding grudges for my smallest missteps. They _will_ kill me, if I endanger them in any way.

And as the days go by, and tempers grow shorter and shorter as nerves climb to ever higher pitches of tension, my danger only increases. As we move through the forest, I am constantly stifling the urge to yawn.

Naturally, sleep has been mostly impossible. My muscles ache from the constant tension, as well as the fact that we walk miles every day in our fruitless hunting.

Both the tributes from District 6 have fallen to us since the bloodbath, but they are the only ones. The others have stayed well-hidden. Well, besides the girl from District 11 that Ellie thinks she hit last night. She didn't want to look at me as she was describing the attempted kill, and I have a feeling there's more to the story than that she muffed a shot and let the girl get away.

Ellie is another problem. I can't deny the fact that her injury is a bomb waiting to go off. At some point, the others will decide that she has become a hindrance rather than a help, and they will kill her. The fact that I am even thinking these things means the others have probably begun to question her contribution to the pack.

That, and the fact that all of us have been rather ineffective since the bloodbath, means that this entire situation is much to volatile for my liking. In past games, the careers usually don't break until the Final Eight at the earliest: sometimes the packs stay intact until they are the only ones left in the Games. Then a battle royale commences, and usually only one or two make it out to hunt down any remaining tributes, kill the other, and gain the victor's crown.

I can imagine that crown now, being placed on my head as the entire cheering nation looks on. Then, I sit down and answer a few questions before watching the replay of the Games that includes my proudest moment: the slow, painful death of the girl from District 8. Then I drink to my brother's honor, knowing that he has been avenged.

Rose, or Pixie as she likes to call herself, will not elude me much longer. I heard her laugh and preen during the interviews, but once I catch her the only sound will be sniveling, begging for mercy. I am an implacable enemy, and will ignore her pleas. I will tear her apart and grind her into the dust, cut off her arm like Fiber did Paion. Her blood will stain the earth, thicker than the tears I shed for my brother's death. I will be a queen, exultant, deadly. All will see me, and cheer at my passing, and I will laugh in the faces of my enemies.

A crown of jewels, jet black and set in rubies and amethysts, the colors of blood and of royalty.

My colors, and true ones.

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

What miserable weather, I think, sitting beneath the hemlock tree that has been my home for the Games. Pounding down with my hammer - well, the rock that I'm using for one, anyway - I drive the last nail through the soles of my boots and survey the finished product. Crude, but hopefully effective. The nails are a bit longer than the studs used for out climbing boots at home, but there's no reason they shouldn't work.

I pull my socks back on and put on my shoes, wiggling my foot all the way in. The boots are a little tight, with my feet sore and a little swollen from exertion and wearing the same shoes for nearly a week.

Something presses into the middle of my foot and I grimace. Probably a stone stuck to my damp feet, and is now nestled snuggly between my foot and my boot, a nuisance if there ever was one. Sighing, I sit down again and drag my boot and sock off, pull out the offending stone - it's amazingly small for something so aggravating - and put everything back on again. Satisfied at last, I climb to my feet.

I don't want to think about trying to sleep tonight. I was awakened this morning, early, by the onset of the mist, and unless it lets up I'm in for a damp night. I groan.

Things could certainly be worse, I remind myself. I have seen no other tributes, and have not been attacked or injured in any way. It's as thought the gamemakers and the other tributes have forgotten my existence entirely. The worst thing I've run into was a bit of passing stomach trouble, likely from eating raw eggs. It has passed, and I once again feel fine. Now, with a rope and climbing shoes, the entire bird population is mine. I'll wage war on the robins and wreak havoc on crows. The idea of fighting against the birds is vaguely funny.

Six days in, I ought to be fighting for my life. I ought to be wounded, or perhaps even dead. The truth is, the Games have been easier on me than I ever imagined. There's one thing that would make these woods much more homelike, though.

A few matches.

One fire, one hot meal, I would almost die for. But only almost. That's why I'm not going to risk my life through some harebrained scheme like returning to the cornucopia for a bit of thievery. No way. Cold berries, raw eggs, and perpetual salad is a lot better than being dead.

Swinging my coil of rope over my shoulder, I head for the tree with the crow's eggs. There were seven, and I only took three, so I ought to have at least one more day's sustenance off of the nest.

I leave the rope at the bottom of the tree for this one. I climbed it just fine last time, and this is no exception. I put the eggs in my pockets and make my way back down, then head into the forest, keeping my eyes out for any birds behaving strangely. It takes a while, since in the rain most of the birds are hidden away, but the first clue comes when I see a robin, beak loaded own with worms, flitter off into the salmonberries to my left.

Following her, I soon hear the tell-tale cheeps of baby birds. That could be a problem. You can't eat raw baby birds. Can you? Well, I'm not going to waste a potential food source. They soon join the eggs inside my ample pockets.

I don't find anything else, but I stop to drink from one of the streams before returning to camp. I'm about to punch a hole through the shell of one of the eggs and dig in, but a welcome interruption makes its appearance: the beeping of a parachute.

It floats out of the mist like a ghost and lands in my waiting hands. Eagerly, I unscrew the silver container and look inside. A dozen matches wink back. Good ol' sponsors don't want to see me crunch into any more raw eggs - or bite the heads off baby birds, either.

I quickly get a fire going, and fry two of the eggs in the container the matches arrived in. The birds...well, I'll figure that out, I guess. Cross that bridge when I come to it.

For now, things are definitely looking up.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 16**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

I thought that it would get easier to bare the longer it lasted. It hasn't. The strain of the Games only increases with every passing day, and the painful guilt of Hunter's death is a burden that ties weights to the already unbearable load of worries stacked upon me. I have hardly met Zita's eyes or spoken to her in the two days we have been together. She seems to be afraid to talk to me, like she'll make me angry somehow, or doesn't trust herself to talk. I understand her hesitance completely. The truth is, I'm in no shape to have a conversation. About anything. I probably _would_ snap at her, and for no reason other than that I want to be left alone.

She's collecting firewood or something now. Frankly, I don't know exactly what she's doing. It doesn't matter.

I draw my knees up under my chin and lean forward, the leaves beneath me rustling. Frustrated, I dash a hand over my eyes, trying to knock away the tears that threaten to run down my cheeks. Maybe the action has made my face look normal, erased the outward signs of misery, but it does nothing to dispel the awful, gnawing ache inside me.

Hunter wouldn't give an inch. He wouldn't tell the careers where to find me, or even that he wasn't alone. He cried out in pain when they tried to wring it out of him, but otherwise was stubbornly silent. I feel like a coward. I sat in the bushes and watched while they broke his back and tried to break his resolve. But he wouldn't give into them. _I_ broke, and they didn't even know I was there. Deep down, I might know I'm blaming myself. He would have wanted me to run, and even more so once he knew Zita was there too. All that trying to help would have done is given the career pack two more lives. Two more feathers in their cap.

Maybe I should have let that happen. Was it courage, to stay in the arena with Zita, or was it cowardice, to avoid death and live to fight another day?

All this questioning is pointless. I will never know, never be able to re-decide. One thing I do know, and that is that no matter what course I chose Hunter would have forgiven me. He was so much braver than I ever was. He volunteered for this. Not for glory, but to lay down his life for his friend.

 _Greater love hath no man..._

It's an old quote that I can't even remember where I heard. But it resonates with me, right now. He gave me the greatest gift he had, by not setting those beasts on my trail.

"Are you all right, Byron?" Zita says hesitantly. Her warm brown eyes look down at me with gentle concern, afraid I'll lash out, or simply refuse to answer, the way I've been doing.

Instead, I shrug. That's sort of an answer.

She bites her lip. "I heated up some soup. If you want some."

That surprises me out of my apathy. All our supplies were taken by the careers after they killed Hunter. The two of us haven't had much since then. "Where on earth did you get soup?"

"The camp, where Danny and I . . . were."

The last word is halting, and her voice shakes a little. She can't conceal that something about that parting hurts her. I didn't know they were allies. I assumed he helped her out of the bloodbath - I saw him getting her out of the mud before Hunter and I ran to the woods - and then they split.

"What happened there?"

She shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but again, her pain is obvious. "He left sometime during the night on Day Three or Four. I got scared when I found him gone, ran, got lost." She shrugs. "That's when you found me."

I nod once.

"He left me," she says more softly.

I make a decision. "That's not what I'm going to do," I reassure her firmly, looking her hard in the eye.

If I do this, I could die. The fear nearly wilts my resolve. _I can take it,_ I tell myself. Then I think of how I feel now, knowing Hunter died for me. If I sacrifice my life, whether directly or indirectly, my parents will be feeling the same way I feel now. That hurts, more than the idea of physical pain. And it won't just be them. Rangle, my brother. Chad and Vera, my dearest friends. I remember how in the Justice Building I promised to my parents that I'd always be their little boy. How could they bare to see me die? I can't do that to them, can I?

Deep down, I know they would understand. To them, me being their little boy is about more than me just being there. It's about me being _me._ The Byron that responded enthusiastically to a teacher that challenged him to make people smile. The Byron that works hard to help support his family. The Byron that bottle-feeds orphan lambs.

A small smile spreads over my face as I think of Cotton. Vera will take care of him for me, I know she will. I wonder what she was going to say to me, before the word came out as just "Goodbye". I've wondered about that a lot. If she was going to say that she loved me. I know she loved me, but I mean loved me as more than just a friend. I've thought about that a lot. Did I love her as more than a friend? I don't really know. And at this point, what might have been isn't what I need to be worrying about. I need to focus hard on what I'm doing. Every day, my life and Zita's life falls into greater peril. I must have all my wits about me.

Steadying myself, I take a deep breath and look up at Zita, who's still standing, watching me anxiously.

"How about some of that soup?" I ask.

She nods, and I get to my feet. "Lead the way."

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster PArker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story 2-Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore**

* * *

 ** _What's going to happen to Eleanor?_**

 ** _What's going to happen to Mercury?_**

 ** _What's going to happen to Capri?_**

 ** _What's going to happen to Cristina?_**

 ** _What do you think of Byron's mindset?_**

 ** _What do you think of Emmett's current situation? (Remember, readers, Emmett is female, despite her name. That seems to have been a point of confusion)._**


	37. Thoughts and Fears - Day 7

**Sorry for the long wait. I've been a terrible mixture of busy and uninspired. It's really hard to write the middle of the Games, because I know most of my placings now and am itching to write the finale, but there's still a ways to go. Thank you all for sticking with me, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

The night is waning, and my guard shift is almost over. Guarding almost feels like a waste of time. This arena is so big, and so rich in plant life, we've hardly seen any tributes besides ourselves for the whole Games. This is going to be one of the long ones. I'm not sure I can last the wait, and my body chafes for action, but I reign myself in. To move to soon would be suicide.

The push will come soon, though. Blast Eleanor to pieces!

All night Mercury has moaned and tossed and turned, his face slick with sweat. Every so often he cries out. Whatever she put in the food, it's doing its job. What I can't fathom is why we _all_ aren't sick. That's the only weak link in my poisoning theory. All the same, I'm sure she did it.

I would, if I was her.

Poison is sneaky and hard to trace, and she is injured and no doubt feeling the peril around her. She must know, must realize from watching past Games, that we hunters do not tolerate weakness well. Her days are numbered, and it must have motivated her to strike first.

Mercury gives a moan, and my stomach flops over. The sounds he gives vent to make me sick to my stomach. I look away from him, scanning the shore for any movement, even though I know I will see nothing.

There's a horrid choking, gagging sound behind me, and I whip around. Blood stains the ground around Mercury, and coats his lower lip. He rolls onto his side, suddenly awake, and heaves again, more blood coating his chin. The sour smell of vomit, mixed with a heavier, more metallic scent, taints the air. I turn away, disgusted unable to watch as he continues to choke, crying out in pain.

Behind me the camp wakes up. I can hear Enzo and Atalanta trying to calm him, to help him, as he whimpers.

Blast them to pieces too!

Enzo thinks he's better than the rest of us, with his girl-back-home, prince-charming story. Sponsors are eating him up, I'm sure of it. And Atalanta. The leader of the career pack, too smart to fall for my playboy ways on the train, but not smart enough now to spot the treachery forming within the camp. A poisoner, not above murdering her own district partner, and Atalanta seems to see nothing.

I am angry, angry at her and most of all angry at Eleanor. What a horrid, low-down trick!

I'd kill her, but it's a risk I simply cannot take. No matter where I turn, my hands are tied. Avoiding looking at the blood-covered sleeping bag and choking boy, or at the others staring at me reproachfully, I take my knife from my belt and begin whetting the blade on a sharpening stone. When the time comes, I will be ready. In the interim, the rhythmic scraping sound and repetitive motion takes the edge off my fear and aggression.

The day will come.

I need only wait.

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

They think I did it!

Whatever's wrong with Mercury, they think I am to blame! I can read it in every glance, every reproachful word. They think I am a poisoner; a murderess!

I don't know why he's sick! I don't know what I might have done wrong! Oh, I wish I had never heard of the beastly Hunger Games!

I've put my foot in it, that's sure and certain. Be yourself, my grandmother used to tell me, so what did I do? I conformed to the rest of my district, a copycat career, whose only worth in life was as a tribute! Be yourself, she said! I finger the rings in my ears, the ones she gave me. I wish she were here now. To tell me what to do. I wish she could hear me, could answer my questions, like: how do I get out of this one alive?

Some careers want death or glory. I just wanted the glory. Death was never an option. But so many things have gone wrong!

What will I do when the storm breaks?

I cannot fight the entire alliance. They will slaughter me. They will kill me slowly, and torture me the way they think I am causing Mercury to be tortured.

I stare at him hopelessly as the vomiting stops and Atalanta grimly watches as he totters back to his mat. I watch as the bloody slick on the surface of the pond gradually dissipates.

What if he dies?

They will kill me.

I will have killed myself.

I didn't have to come here, I remind myself miserably. This was my choice. I dug this hole. This grave. _My choice._

 _My choice._

Can I choose to fight? To survive? I must push through, I must. I have come to far, dug to deep, to die now. I can't give up! I can't! I must fight, I must fight bravely and to the bitter end. I can win, if only I try hard enough, I must believe that. I must.

I cannot die.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

Carefully, so as not to prick my finger, I pluck a ripe blackberry and put it into my makeshift bag: a piece torn from the hem of my poncho. I'm glad I took only a small piece. Despite the deceptive days of heat after the bloodbath, the weather is becoming dreary again as it was the morning we were launched, and I'll need my water-proof poncho again for sure.

It seems so far away now, as though whole seasons have passed rather than days. On Day One, I was a terrified, untrained child, one in twenty-four, with the bloodbath looming before me. On Day Two I was a very sick tribute, with a bad ankle, lying under the very noses of the careers and praying they did not notice me, nor that I would betray myself through my explosive vomiting. On Day Four I was a starving tribute, desperate to move away from the careers and find something to eat.

Now, I am a bold young woman, one in fourteen, beginning to believe that I can survive. And beginning to plan.

This arena is a wealth as far as avoiding starvation goes. It has the green young plants of early spring, and the nuts and berries of late summer. It has animals, as well, but I have no way to catch them. Laughable, for a tribute from District 10. I ought to be an animal whisperer and an expert butcher. The truth is, I'm only any good at cutting up animals _after_ they're dead. Well, and repairing fences and delivering lambs, too, but somehow I doubt that's helpful in my present situation. The point is, I can't catch anything.

What _is_ helpful in my present situation is my hope. My ankle barely hurts anymore; only if I walk to far, in fact. It bears my weight once again with ease. It must not have been as serious as I once thought, a painful sprain rather than a break or torn ligament. My vomiting and other unpleasantness has cleared up with my discovery of a fast-funning stream: clean water makes all the difference.

I have only one complaint: there is simply not _enough_ food to satisfy.

There were a number of cattails growing around the pond where we were launched. Waterlilies, too. Blackbirds nested among the reeds. And I'd bet there are frogs and maybe even fish waiting to be caught. There is also, unfortunately, the cornucopia, guarded at all times by at least one bloodthirsty career.

But at night...

No one has troubled them. They must be becoming careless. If at night I were to steal down to the water's edge, I could dig as many roots as I wanted. Likely as not their guards will be asleep, and if they aren't, I have only to melt back into the forest before they can launch their canoe. Careers don't like getting their feet wet, poor things.

The girl from Two wouldn't have enough light to shoot me, either. The plan is daring. Foolproof isn't exactly the word I'd use, but I'm no fool, so it doesn't have to be. I would never attempt such a thing unless I believed I had a reasonable chance for success.

Well, I believe I do.

Careers, here's to a good night's sleep this evening. Because _I_ won'tbe sleeping.

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

Last night, my fire, so welcome during the day, posed an awful quandary.

With only twelve matches, and who knows how long left in the arena, I wasn't going to be able to just strike a match any old time I needed heat or to cook something. On the other hand, I couldn't let my fire burn overnight. This whole time my strategy has been to stay under the radar. At night, a fire would shine out like a beacon, and draw every tribute in the arena to me like moths to a flame.

Only I'd be the one that died.

So, I took a risk. I banked the fire as well as I could with big, wet logs, then covered those over in dirt. I thought it was likely the fire would smother out, but I'd seen coals survive buried under ash before in the fireplace at home. Maybe they wouldn't go out.

All night long, I fully expected to be found and killed. If the fire flamed up while I was asleep, there would be nothing at all I could do to stop from being found. It would be the end of the line. The end of my life.

I would never see Luke, or Keegan, or my mother again. I would never have a chance to make things better for them. Instead, I would simply end. Alone but for my killer or killers. Alone in the dark and the rain.

As might be expected, I didn't get much sleep thinking that way. In fact, I barely fell asleep all night. Finally I did, and no careers or tributes came, and no one died, and the fire still smoldered along under the logs and dirt, and I woke up perfectly safe, if a little wet, and mad at myself for getting so worked up. All those things, though, that I thought.

They're real possibilities. Real dangers lurking just around the corner, waiting for a careless move or even just a bit of bad luck to jump in and end my life. Luke had faith in me. I have to have faith in myself. I look down at the ring on my finger.

Did Luke have faith in me?

Something he said in the Justice Building nags me.

 _Emmett, one way or another, you're going to be safe by the end of these Games. You'll either be home or . . . you'll be beyond the reach of anything that could hurt you. I want to know something though, before you leave. If you come back, will you marry me?_

One way or another. Safe by the end. Home or. Anything that could hurt you. If you come back.

 _If._

It's such a big if. It might as well be an impenetrable hedge between me and anything else. Try as I might, I can't see past it to an end. I could die. Phoenix, that monster, tried to kill me during the bloodbath. He could have succeeded right then and there. I could be dead. Where do you go when you die? Are your really safe? No one can know, can they?

On the Hunger Games, I've seen death so many ways. There was a girl from District 11 once that I saw in reruns who hurled herself into the jaws of a spider to save another girl. I can't imagine dying that way. It would be too horrible. But she barely seemed to mind. There was a boy, too, that took an arrow to save his district partner. He seemed almost peaceful, for that split second where, arms spread wide, he jumped in front of her. Welcoming death.

But there have been others. A boy, kicking and shrieking, dragged to his death by ravening wolves. And a girl, tortured by careers, begging for death. There are things now too, that I've seen in person. things I don't want to remember.

The little girl from Three, with a spear in her chest, gargling blood. Liam from Twelve, thrashing in pain as the boy from Five skewered him. The boy from Five himself, moments later, the life leaking from him at the hands of the boy from Two. The last thing Liam ever did was kill someone.

What will I be like? I don't think I'll be brave. I'm frightened, and I know it. My face is sweaty and my legs shake. And I'm not even in real danger at the moment. All I did was _think_.

Besides, how can I trust myself when even Luke would not commit to saying ' _you're coming home, Emmett'_?

For so long, he's been the only one that I could trust. Mother was too scared. Keegan didn't know what was going on around him. Winnie and Jo were good friends, but they couldn't be like family. And Scott . . . I shudder. My not-father was worse than anything. Family, but a beast. Thank God I am not really his child by blood.

Oh Luke, I wish you were here with me.

No, no I don't.

I could never doom him to this.

 _That_ was brave to think. Selfless, to put his safety before my own, I reflect wryly. Perhaps I am not the coward I think I am.

I rake the logs and dirt away from my fire and blow on the coals. The heat bakes my face, and with each breath the coals grow a little brighter. But if I don't blow on them again, they start to fade. That's what my courage is like now. Flickering. Dim. I'm running out of breath, and I'm worried that eventually it will die.

And then I will die too.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

I'm beginning to relax. Zita is alive. I am far away from the careers and all other signs of tributes. And my location could not be more beautiful.

Down among a thicket of huckleberry bushes, with plenty of berries to eat, atop a ridge where I can see any visitors before they see me, the ground carpeted in soft, pale-green moss, and all the way around trees reaching toward the sky like tall grey-brown pillars, ending in a tangle of green limbs and leaden sky.

I almost feel safe.

If only there were not such danger, I could almost be happy.

Sometimes, back at home, I felt a lot older than sixteen. With parents I loved, musical talent, and a girl I planned to marry, I was thinking ahead a lot more than others my age. Most boys wanted a toy, not someone to love and cherish, but I couldn't and still can't imagine Ebony as anything but my wife. Anything else would be wrong. Unthinkable, even. Everything was so clear to me. Music, Ebony, family, love, laughter, they were all right. The Games, cruelty, anger, peacekeepers, they were wrong but for the most part comfortably removed.

I can't believe that, the day Eb's dog ran away and I went out after her and got beat up, that I couldn't see the evil happening around me. For the first time, peacekeeper violence was affecting _me._ Still, I went home, nursed my bruises and cuts, and promptly forgot.

My hand automatically goes to my pocket, seeking the lump of metal. The ring one of the peacekeepers dropped during the attack, and that I brought as a token. I find it and pull it out, reminding myself why I keep the ring. _I can be beaten, but I'm the one that gets to choose if I'm defeated._

I'm not sure the words come from the same me. I feel so much more fragile, hurt, and unsure. So many things have happened. I once saw black and white, but the world is beginning to look like a very grey place. How can I stay true to myself amidst all this mess? How do I keep it from just swallowing me, pulverizing me, crushing me: chewing me up and spitting me out.

I see the lock of hair attached to the ring by a chain. The lock Ebony pressed into my palm in the Justice Building.

It's jet black shows starkly against the pale, pink-white of my palm.

Black and white.

Right and wrong.

So easy to feel, so easy to want, sometimes so impossible to achieve. What can I do.

I close my eyes. There's no easy answer, no easy way out. Then what do I do?

It's like I expect some bodiless voice to just suddenly start answering all my questions as I stare up at the darkening sky. Instead, the blare of the anthem fills the air.

Black.

No one has died today. The anthem finishes and the sky goes dark

White.

Every man must find a way to distinguish the two. Tonight, no answer is forthcoming.

I feel so small, and more unsure than I ever have before.

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story 2-Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Careers-Caspar Ophir, Atalanta Bliss, Mercury Medall, Eleanor Bradford, Enzo Garrix, Cyma Dolore**

* * *

 ** _What do you think of Caspar's current strategy\mindset?_**

 ** _What's going to happen to Mercury?_**

 ** _What should Eleanor's course of action look like?_**

 ** _What do you think of Ricotta's plan?_**

 ** _What do you think of Emmett's current strategy\mindset?_**

 ** _What do you think of Danny's current strategy\mindset?_**

 ** _Pick a tribute. Analyze their position. What would you do if you were in their current situation?_**

* * *

 **That chapter was a bit shorter than usual. Hopefully it was still good!**


	38. Chaos and Killing - Day 8 Part One

**I update rather fast when I have a mind to...**

 **A\N: IMPORTANT!: As I stated in Private Messages sent to those that were so kind as to review last chapter, Mercury's illness has a cause that can be seen somewhere in the story. I'd really like it for people to figure it out before things come to a head. I suggest that, before reading this chapter, you try to solve the mystery. A clue: The cause to his illness may be found in the bloodbath chapter. If your do not find it, I will make clear during the post-Games interviews, when the victor sees the replay of their Games. But I think you can find it sooner. Best of luck to you in your search, and forgive me for not being more obvious.**

 **Of additional note, I updated the blog with placings for deceased tributes, and changed the face claims for Willi, Zita, Emmett, and Pixie, who all had face claims that I originally was not very fond of. If you've got the time, let me know what you think!**

 **Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

 _Bushes thrash as something makes its way down the hill toward me. Only one group in the arena is big enough to make such noise. It's the careers. They mustn't find me! I sink lower among the bushes, praying the ivy before my face is thick_ _enough, that they won't notice the slight disturbance where I pushed the vines aside to crawl into my hiding place._

 _They reach the site of my fire._ Please _don't find the deer, please don't find the deer, I need to eat that..._

 _The careers pass the bushes where it is hidden away. I relax a little_

 _"There's no one here," Atalanta calls angrily._

 _"The fire's still going, they must have heard us coming and run. They're still nearby." That was the girl from Two._

 _"Good luck finding anyone in this underbrush," the Four girl snorts._

 _"It'll be like hide and seek," the Two boy retorts. "Spread out and search in all different directions. When you find them, holler and we'll put on a show."_

 _"Think it's District Eight?" I hear the Four girl ask._

 _"I hope so," Atalanta says. Her voice sends chills through me. "I've been waiting for us to catch up with her."_

 _"How come you hate her so much?" Four inquires._

 _"District 8 killed my brother in the Quell," Atalanta answers simply. "It's revenge. Nobody gets to make my district look bad, especially not when it's my family involved."_

 _I bite my lip, nearly ceasing breathing as the girls jog past. Looking for me. Should they catch me, I guarantee that my death will not be pretty or quick. Images of past Hunger Games, and children carved to unrecognizable, sobbing pieces of meat, bring bile to my throat. My whole body is tense with terror. They cannot catch me. I cannot die. Not now, not when I'm figuring things out. I'm so desperate to live, the strength of my desire is almost startling. I never knew how much I wanted to live until now._

 _Shuddering, weak with relief, I sink back as the careers pass me by. My hand lowers the sling that hung ready in my hand. Beneath it, I feel the rigid shape of a twig. I try to pull back, but it's too late._

 _Crack!_

 _The sound seems to echo in the silence and I breathe in sharply, my hand flying to the knife at my side._

 _"What was that?"_

 _The boy from Two._

 _"I thought I heard something."_

 _Now the girl from One._

 _Footsteps crunch closer on the leaves. They stop, just in front of me. Through a gap in the brush, I can see the booted feet and slender legs of the District One girl, and behind her in a confused jumble, the rest of the pack._

 _"Look," the Two girl says softly. "There's fresh dirt on the ground. Something disturbed it."_

 _Her District partner laughs softly. "Let's see. There wouldn't be a cave behind that ivy, now would there?" I hear the leaves shift as he steps forward._

 _I want to leap out upon them. I want to jump out and tear them to pieces, run through and away. I don't want to die here. It's not fair, after I found the deer and things were looking so much better! I want to take them by surprise, make the first move!_

 _Instead, I can't do a thing but quiver in ever mounting horror as the boy's hand moves forward, a knife glinting wickedly. My muscles clench and unclench. I want to shut my eyes, but even my eyelids won't move. I can't move, not at all, though my brain screams at me to run, hide, fight, anything to save myself! My sling hangs motionless in my clenched hand, the other hand hovering above my knife, but I can't move to use them. Am I too frightened? I don't know. It's about to end. I will die._

 _Please, please make it quick._

 _The bushes are shoved aside and sunlight streams down on my face. Mercury whistles softly. "Well, well, what do we have here? Atalanta, it's your little friend from Eight."_

 _He does nothing to restrain me, but still I can't move. Triumphant, the girl from One bears down on me, triumph burning in her eyes. Her spear weaves back and forth before my face, like a snake waiting to strike. I have only moments left before I die. I ought to think something brave, or say one last message to my mother or brother. Perhaps tell him to take care of her. Instead, I can only think, cowardly, selfishly: I don't want to die!_

 _The spear lunges into my eye._

With a strangled shriek I come upright, and my head slams into the wood above me so hard I see stars. Gasping I press both hands to my face. There is no blood. No spear. I am unhurt, alive, it was just a dream.

Just a dream.

I repeat the words over and over like a mantra, a theme to march to. They seem hollow, and not at all comforting. Only the part about the careers finding me was a dream. All the rest happened. And what didn't happen easily could have. What if I had betrayed myself? I would be dead right now. No longer in existence. I can't stand the thought.

Standing, I stumble out of my cave-like refuge beneath the draping ivy, and suck in deep breaths of the windy air. It carries misty rain driven from the sea, and a bitter, salty tang. It tastes like tears.

I could have been killed easily. Butchered a hundred different ways. I try to stop the images flooding to my mind, but they only intensify. How can I keep going in the face of this? The ever-constant threat of death, and not noble death, or peaceful death, or even just death, but sick, terrifying, twisted death at the hands of monsters, for the entertainment of the masses.

I dont understand heroes. I tried to defend Cotton, to warn him in the heat of the moment when he was in danger during the bloodbath. He died anyway. It all seems so pointless.

That's another time I could have died, I remind myself. Right at the outset, trying to defend a boy I didn't even know. I am selfishly glad that I got away. That I lived to fight another day. That blood still pumps through my veins. That my heart beats, and I breathe and think. Instead, I could be nothing but a stiff, mutilated corpse on the floor of a Capitol hovercraft, and a splash of blood, already dry, coating the plants of the arena. I shudder, sinking to my knees. I can't live like this anymore!

I can't!

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

The night is waning when I make my move.

Yesterday evening I hid myself in the bushes a few hundred yards from the lake, at the side where the cattails grow. I nearly fell asleep several times waiting until I thought the careers would be becoming sleepy and careless in their watch, but I managed to stay awake and now it's time.

I can barely believe my own audacity.

Creeping along, I have several scares as twigs snap under my feet. It's hard to avoid the natural booby traps of the forest in the pre-dawn darkness. I'm managing, though. No broken bones yet.

Somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots and I jump, then relax and continue on my way. Minutes later I reach the lake. The reeds look like dry, discolored skeletons in the moonlight, with their pale grey-brown stalks and ghostly waving heads. They sound like bones too, as the wind blows their dried-out husks together. The breeze carries misty rain, and it wreathes the cornucopia out near the center of the water. On the far shore, frogs croak, though near me they are silent. The scene is perfectly ghostly, and I suppress a shiver.

No one stirs, and I make my way as quietly as I can to the water's edge. Reaching down into the muddy water near the bank, I begin to pry cattail roots from the cold mud and place them in the bag made of the poncho scrap. The rest of my poncho impedes my movement as I dig, but I ignore it. It was too wet out not to wear it.

The muddy roots don't look very appetizing, but they will no doubt be more appealing peeled and baked in the coals of a fire. My family used to bake potatoes that way, among the coals of our stove back home. Most of our cooking and heat in District 10 is supplied by coal, as we are too far from District 5 for power to be efficiently transmitted from the dam and other generators there.

I can almost smell the potatoes now, warm and mealy in their brown skins. Colby was always too eager, and would burn his fingers and tongue trying to eat them before they cooled down. I feel an overpowering wave of homesickness as I think of my family. They are probably crouched around the television now, holding their breath at my proximity to the careers. I wonder if they miss me as much as I miss them.

Anything much farther from hot, dry District 10, with its ever-present animals and homey, barney smells is hard to imagine. Even the slow, careful, hard work of repairing a barbed wire fence or shearing a sheep is preferable to this wet, erratic, alien world, one moment hot and the next wet and miserably, bone-achingly cold.

Something flitters in the reeds and I jerk upright, all thoughts of home gone in an instant as I wonder whether I will be fighting for my life. A moment later the noise comes again and a blackbird perches atop a reed. I relax. Then I have a thought: perhaps there are nests among the reeds?

I have almost decided to search, when I reflect that the awakened bird means that morning must be coming soon. No doubt the careers will be waking up in not long, and I have no time to waste. All the same, the idea of leaving with nothing more than a pile of muddy roots nags at me. I gather them up, and make my way along the water's edge, hoping to find something more worthwhile before I leave. It seems silly to have risked so much for so little.

Chancing to glance toward the cornucopia, I see a sight that sends an audacious thought to beat all others flying to my mind. Seated atop the golden horn is the girl from Two, her bow lying at an odd angle, her head sunk on her chest, unmistakably asleep. No doubt she is their guard.

There, underneath her, are the snoring forms of the other five careers, and behind them...

A wealth of supplies. A veritable treasure-trove of weapons, survival items, perhaps even luxuries! Food, clothing, tools, weapons . . . they are all there, all mine for the taking.

I could do it. I could raid the cornucopia. I could.

Before I have time to think better of it, I have stuffed the bundle of muddy roots beneath a bush, and am lowering myself into the water. The going is tricky, with the mud and water weeds, and I'm a little frightened as I don't know how to swim. The water is shallow, though, I remember that from the bloodbath. Even the little girl from Three was able to keep her head just barely above water. Otherwise it wouldn't have been fair.

I snort at the notion of fairness in the Games.

Reaching the cornucopia, I heave myself from the water as quietly as I can. I am shaking with excitement at the thrill of the danger. Perhaps I am a fool. But I feel like a heroine.

Tiptoeing inside so as not to wake the sleepers, biting my lip with the tension, I move lightly inside. My foot catches on something, but I snatch out and manage to keep it from falling. By the feel of the cold shaft, it is a spear.

Gradually my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and I no longer worry about bumping into things. Instead, I worry about how to transport all the things, or rather, since I can take only as much as I can carry, what to choose and what to leave behind.

I fill my pockets with packets of soup, jerky, dried peas, chocolate powder, and a number of foods that will feel like luxury. Then I take a pot, for cooking, and inside it stash several bottles of chlorine tablets, a bottle of disinfectant, bandages, a pair of knives, and a jacket. Seeing an empty backpack near to hand, I stuff my things inside and add a waterproof blanket. Oops, nearly forgot matches! I turn around, grab a tin, and add them to my loot bag. I am reaching for canned food when a choked sound startles me and I turn around.

The boy from District 2, on his hands and knees, is trying to get toward me. He tries to call out for help, but his voice is hoarse and barely a whisper. Frightened nearly half to death, I run straight over top of him to the exit, swinging the backpack onto my back. The boy falls with a gurgling cry, and I jump into the water and wade for shore with all my speed, thrashing in an effort to go faster. All attempts at stealth are abandoned. I can hear cries of alarm behind me. My only hope is to get out of sight among the darkened trees and disappear into the shadows before they can follow.

Adrenaline pumps through me, giving me a ridiculous strength as I plow through the water, tearing my feet free of the mud and weeds that seek to hold me back. With a heave, I leap in among the trees.

I can't believe what I just did!

* * *

 **Mercury Medall, 18**

 **District 2 Male**

* * *

I could feel myself fading yesterday evening. The vomiting and blood stopped their torrent at last, but I feel like death. Every movement sends pain like a lance ripping through my abdomen. It hurts more than anything I have ever felt, more than the worst blows I ever took in a fight, more than the strongest punch or kick to the jaw or chest. All my mental defenses crumble against it, and the most my spent, ravaged throat can muster are gasps rather than cries.

All night long I have lain rigid, simply trying not to move. It is hard to define sleep and waking. I simply float somewhere in between. Sometimes the pain is from knives that butcher me in dark dreams, and when waking it is no better. Whatever it is is inside me.

I feel dizzy and light, floating above myself, but not above the pain. That accompanies me everywhere I go.

It is hard to believe that I am even alive. It seems the pain ought to have killed me. I want it to go away, at any cost.

The beeping of a parachute cuts through the dark clouds around my mind. Instantly Enzo is awake, running over to me and catching the parachute that floats gently down. He unscrews the cylinder beneath it, and gives a grateful gasp when he sees what's inside. I watch, pleadingly, as he removes the syringe and looks at me.

"It's from District 2," he says excitedly. "They've sent medicine."

I try to sit up, but the pain defeats me and I fall back, grabbing a knot of sleeping bag tightly to keep from making noise. I cannot be weak. I must stay strong. Stoicism is looked on well in the Games. I'll get more sponsors . . .

It hurts to much. I moan.

Hands moving swiftly, Enzo inserts the needle into my arm. Blessed relief flows into me through the puncture. I feel more light-headed than before, but the pain is removed. I float above it, dully knowing that it is there, but not feeling it. Almost it is blissful.

"Not medicine," I say hoarsely, startled by the ragged sound of my voice. "Morphling. Painkiller."

Enzo nods once, then turns away suddenly. He must have realized what I am beginning to feel: whatever is wrong with me, it cannot be sponsored away. Real fear flickers across my bravado. I am dying. I must be. They have sent me the medicine to ease me out of the world.

I fight my exhaustion tooth and nail, afraid that if I close my eyes I will never wake up again. But after a sleepless night yesterday, there are stronger pulls than my fear, and the next thing I know I am waking up. I curse myself for falling asleep, when a sound, a quiet ping of metal touching metal, sounds behind me. As quietly as I can I roll over, reassured when the pain does not cripple me. Morphling.

Startled, my eyes widen. The girl from Ten is standing in the back of the cornucopia, stuffing things into a backpack. I lunge to my feet, but I underestimate my weakness and fall, landing painfully atop a water bottle. It digs sharply into my stomach and then tips over, releasing the pressure. It feels as though my body has burst and with a gurgling cry I fall, barely supporting myself on my arm. Tears sting my eyes. Ah...

The girl runs forward, her boot striking me in the face and hurling me onto my side. Hard shoes strike my back, grinding my face and pain-wracked body into the ground. Spent, I lie, shaking, my abdomen tight with pain.

I cannot move. I cannot breathe. It hurts...

Pull yourself together!

With all the effort I can muster, I raise my face. "Girl...from Ten...thief..." I croak, and the others spring to life around me. I hear them rush outside, their voices angry. Caspar's is raised above the other's, yelling. I wish they would quiet down. I want to be alone. I want the pain to stop. Desperately, my fingers scrabble on the floor, finding the syringe. Empty, of course. Why don't they send more? Something snaps.

Outside, the voices intensify to angry shouts.

Heat engulfs me. I throw away the blankets that still cling to me, tear off my shirt. My stomach is distended and tight, and every movement covers it in waves of fire. My legs twitch and will not stop. All my mental power is useless against the pain engulfing me, and my pulse pounds in my ears. _I am going to die!_

No. Not death, anything else. I am not ready to die. I always win. I never give up! A sob tears through me. I want to escape the pain. I put a hand on my stomach and press down, down, wishing I could drive it away. My arm shakes with the effort. At last I cannot hold the pressure and I scream aloud as the pain surges back with double force. I cannot take this a moment longer. I cannot!

Forcing myself to my feet I try to run, anything to get away, but the room tilts crazily and I stagger sideways. The back of my head slams against the wall of the cornucopia. Spent, I lie where I fall. No more. No more running. I am found. I am caught. I cannot get away.

Shivering and burning alternately, floating in a surreal world, I drift off. Oblivion does not find me. Nothing finds me. Everything. I cannot escape. If I go dark, I will never wake up. I must not fall asleep...

* * *

 **Enzo Garrix, 17**

 **District 4 Male**

* * *

Mercury. Is he dying?

I spring to my feet as a choked sound cuts my sleep short. A shadowy figure plunges into the lake with a splash, Mercury lies writhing, moaning, delirious on the floor. All this I take in in a heartbeat, then cry the alarm, rushing after the fugitive.

I plunge into the water and go after the girl, but the seconds I hesitated were precious. Swimming with utmost speed, I catch up to her just as she reaches the bank, but as she heaves herself from the water, her heel slams into my nose. Gurgling, reflexive tears starting to my eyes, I go under. Curse her luck! I don't think she even knew I was there.

Behind me, the cornucopia has come alive. Mad as hornets, the other careers swarm outside behind me, just in time to see the girl from District 10 vanish into the shadows of the forest.

Bleeding heavily, sputtering, I heave myself from the water and back onto the ledge of the cornucopia. Caspar is the angriest. His face is flushed and his eyes bloodshot. For a moment I think he is going to attack me, blame me for letting her get away, but his furious gaze lands on an easier, softer target.

Eleanor is just waking up atop the cornucopia. "What's going on she?" she calls, voice a little frantic.

Caspar's tone is icy. "What's going on? Perhaps you should tell _me._ You're the guard, after all. Perhaps you should _tell_ _me_ how a plump, untrained girl raided the cornucopia under your very nose!" His voice rises to a shout. Eleanor, flushed and angry now too, opens her mouth to respond but Caspar isn't finished. "Perhaps you should tell me, since your the cook, why one of our best fighters, your district partner, is dying in his sleeping bag. You lowdown, treacherous, lazy coward! What have you contributed to this alliance? You managed to nearly get yourself killed the first day, sat around at the cornucopia, and now, you think guard duty is nap time! Why you-"

"Caspar, stop." It's Atalanta. "You'll only make things worse. She messed up, but that doesn't make her-"

"Yes Caspar, listen to Atalanta. Stop." It's Eleanor, her eyes narrowed and angry.

Dread suddenly clutches my heart. Her tone is ominous. I have a very, very bad feeling about this.

"Stop insulting people whenever you feel the need to bluster. If you're trying to impress sponsors, let me tell you something. You're very ugly when you're angry. Your ears turn red. And-"

"You overbearing-" Caspar shouts, before Eleanor cuts him off.

"You what? What new insult have you thought up? It's sad that you're so dissatisfied with the hunting lately, you're picking fights with your allies. Why don't you focus on tracking down a tribute? For all your bluster about my lack of contribution, you haven't killed anyone since the bloodbath, and those glorious engagements consisted of a thirteen year old who impaled himself on your clumsy sword, and a wounded Twelve you finished off. Impressive. Statistics fit for a District 1 king and future victor, yes? No. Statistics fit for a luxurious, lazy sod. I've actually got a hit, someone I hunted myself, likely dying right now."

"You mean Mercury?" Caspar hisses.

Eleanor's face becomes covered in terror and her eyes widen. "I mean the girl from Eleven!" she cries, frightened.

Almost as though unconsciously, her hand snatches an arrow from her quiver.

"Oh I bet you do," Caspar yells, running toward her. She nocks the arrow and brings the bow up. Someone has to intervene, or the alliance will shatter! Still holding my sleeve to my bleeding nose, I leap between them, putting a hand on Caspar's forearm. "Calm down," I hiss. "You can't break the career pack now."

"Oh, can't I?" he snarls. "Just watch." He wrenches away, but I grab onto him again.

"Don't be a fool," I counsel. "She's insulting you. Maybe even baiting you, but if you do something stupid you're going to get us all killed." He jerks away again, but this time he doesn't try to move forward. Speaking in a raised tone, but still looking at me, he chews Eleanor out.

"She's a hellcat. Probably a poisoner. We're not safe as long as she's alive."

"A _hellcat_? You're playing a dangerous game Caspar Ophir!"

Still holding the bow, she bends her knees to leap from the cornucopia, and everything happens at once.

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

Eleanor's foot slips, and with a cry, she slides down on her back, her hands releasing the bow and by extension the arrow as she falls. Something hisses past me viciously, and with a gurgling cry Caspar falls to the ground. I whirl, and see him lying half in the water, an arrow standing in the middle of his chest.

Horrified, I turn back to Eleanor who is scrambling into the water and away, bow still in hand.

Raising my spear, I turn and run after her. She must not get away. Accident or not, she has killed one of the members of our alliance. I have had my own suspicions, and it seems that, whether a poisoner or not, she is becoming increasingly dangerous. Besides, district loyalty demands that I avenge Caspar's death. I never liked him, but the realization that he is dead fills me with righteous anger. Everything is going wrong!

Someone seizes my arm before I reach the water. Terrified, acting on blind instinct drilled into me by years of training, I turn and drive my spear upward into my attacker.

Blood squirts out in a fountain as I wrench my spear free, and through the blurry red specks of my vision, I see Enzo Garrix gasping in the mud as twin streams of red flow from his ravaged throat. His eyes are wide in shock, and choking, gasping noises wrench from him. I turn away from the sickening sight, and come face to face with Cyma. Her eyes are wide with horror, and I am barely in time to block the strike as she bares her teeth and shoves her knife in for my throat.

"Cyma!" I cry. "Cyma, listen to me, I didn't know it was him!"

She strikes again, and again I block her blow. "I thought he was attacking me. It was self-defense. Listen to me, we are the last careers! We can't kill each other!" A cannon fires, emphasizing my point. I wonder whether it was Caspar or Enzo.

"We have to stay united, or one of the outer districts will win!"

That seems to hit her hard. She lowers her knife, and I lower my spear, though still holding it in a defensive position. Another cannon sounds.

"I don't want that," she says slowly.

Satisfied that she won't attack, I ground my spear in a rest position. "Allies?" I ask, with a little smile, extending my hand.

"Allies," she answers shortly. Then: "Enzo."

Reluctantly, not wanting to see what I did, I turn. The mud around him is red with blood, and one of his legs twitches reflexively, though he is surely dead. His eyes stare sightless at the sky. I fight nausea. I have seen death before in the Games, but I didn't mean to kill him. The accident has left me shaken.

"He's dead."

I nod once. "I'm sorry," I say.

"I'm going to kill Eleanor," she snaps, eyes suddenly blazing.

"That makes two of us," I assure her.

"Then what are we waiting for?" holding her knife, she plunges into the water.

I go to follow her, when I realize something. Weren't there two cannons?

Where is Caspar?

* * *

 **A\N: Well, well, aren't I evil! This is where not adding eulogies or kill statistics until after the death recap starts to come into play for real...**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster PArker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 ** _That chapter had some action. What was your favorite bit?_**

 ** _Who do you think is dead?_**

 ** _What consequences will these events have?_**

 ** _Are you seeing a victor yet?_**

 ** _A final five?_**

 ** _Final eight?_**

 ** _Any particular ideas for something your tribute should\could\would do?_**

 ** _*I will not necessarily use any ideas you have, but I am curious. If someone is becoming a static character, your ideas might liven them up. I probably won't use requests like: 'Capri Kane goes berserk and massacres the remaining careers', or 'Danny Sparks blows up the arena', just so you know :)_**


	39. Flight and Fortune - Day 8 Part Two

**Hello. I am alive. No disasters have happened. School has happened. I am returned to bring you another chapter and some bad news: my update schedule will likely continue to be erratic and rare. However, with the help of some ancient artifacts known as paper and pencils, I have been able to work on my story in increments even when internet is not available. So updates should happen, albeit slowly.**

 **Additionally, I would recommend that you skim, or best of all re-read, the last chapter (you can skip Pixie's POV at the beginning) because the events here are direct continuations of the previous drama, and you might be a little lost without a refresher. It's your call, just a recommendation.**

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

Crashing through bushes, twigs lashing my face, feet churning the ground to mud, I run blindly ahead in great, bounding leaps. My face tingles with effort, slick with sweat. My legs burn from utter exhaustion. Only fear keeps me on my feet, running, running, always running. My bow, still clenched tight in my left hand, sings beside me and threatens to trip me. I cannot discard it, for it is my only weapon. Every step hurls me through the woods at breakneck speed.

With every lunge ahead I expect to feel a spear tear and tangle my legs and drop me to the ground. A cannon fires.

I killed him then. I cannot help but feel a surge of satisfaction somewhere in the back of my flight-focused mind. Caspar crossed me too many times. Despite the satisfaction, I know that I moved much too soon. Now I am alone, not only no longer a career but with the whole pack on my heels.

I didn't mean to fire a shot. Only force him to stand down. Assert my superiority. Instead, I have shattered my alliance.

My speed begins to slack. There have been no actual sounds of pursuit. My blind panic begins to recede.

Suddenly, a crashing in the bushes sends my heart leaping into my throat and I bound forward again. My feet leave the ground and I am falling, down, down. The ground gives way and I tumble head over heels, bushes tearing my clothes to shreds and then starting to work on my exposed skin. Grasping thorns snatch my hair and face then tear them as I fall free.

I come to a stop, cuts stinging, blood dripping into my eyes. The stinging increases tenfold and I leap up, blood coursing into my eyes. For a moment I do not know what is happening, I cannot see, only feel my skin bubble and burn and itch with a thousand stings. I run forward, and fuzzy leaves brush my legs through the tears in my pants, stinging the exposed skin. I tear myself free of the grasp of the nettles and fling myself down on the soft fir needles of the forest floor, chest heaving, quivering with exhaustin and the awful stings. They make me want to scratch and tear at my skin, but I am too tired to move.

I can't run anymore. Whatever was in those bushes that frightened me can come and kill me at its leisure. The thought of death frightens me and I stagger up. Never let it be said that I went down without a fight . . .

the beautiful buck freezes, raised muzzle quivering and dripping with water.

 _Water!_

With a cry of delight I rush forward, the buck bounding into the trees, and fling myself headlong into the muddy pond. It's about two feet deep, and though for a moment it intensifies the pain of my cuts and stings, I plunge my face under, reveling in the moisture and coolness. It is much better than the prickling dirt and sweat and fear that coated me. The sting against my cuts eases as I acclimate to the sudden moisture.

Eventually I have to come up for air and I do so, flinging my wet braid and bangs out of my eyes. Then I take great handfuls of the water and splash it all over, rubbing and laving my soiled clothes. I am gentle as I work away the grime and crusted blood from my injured leg. It has not opened since my chase of the District 11 girl on Day 5, and seems to be at last healing for real. I am angry that it rained, for I could have tracked the Eleven girl and completed my kill, I am convinced of it.

Pulling my knees to my chest, I get as much of me under water as I can and let myself relax. Numb and muddy and alone I may be, but I feel confident. I am glad that Caspar forced me to shoot him. I had been wanting to do it since I first laid eyes on him.

The real Games begin now, and I feel prepared, victory within striking distance. Or at least bowshot.

* * *

 **Caspar Ophir, 18**

 **District 1 Male**

* * *

The surprise is what knocks me to the ground as much as the impact. It doesn't really hurt, I just can't believe she let the arrow fly; the arrow that now stands in my chest with the fletching silhouetted before my startled eyes. My heartbeats throb in my ears, but I can breathe. I should be dead.

As quickly as they left, my wits return. Do not question your survival, Caspar. You are alive. Now keep it that way.

I roll off the ledge and into the water. It is stinging, freezing cold, especially against the exposed nerves in my chest. I gasp, and my nose fills. Coming up, I choke out the water and move straight for the shore, making as little noise as I can, and keeping as much of me below the surface of the water as possible. Behind me I can still hear shouts. The others must be fighting. There's a horrid, hissing gurgling sound, one I've heard before on other games. Someone wheezing through a slit throat.

There's no time to look back and see what's happening. I keep driving myself toward the woods. I hope Eleanor is dead. Plunging into the forest, I ignore the persistent pangs in my chest and continue on until I am out of earshot. Blood flows hot and sticky under my wet shirt.

When I can run no more I fling myself down against a tree and at last turn my attention to my paining chest. What I see sets me shaking with relief.

She struck me square in the center of the chest, over the bone. Foolish, foolish, I think, vindictive over this sign of stupidity. She didn't know her weapon, didn't know that a low powered bow, a _girl's_ bow, can't penetrate bone. Thanks to her mistake, I am nothing more than lacerated and bruised, possibly with a dent in my sternum. Torn nearly free by the heaving of my chest as I ran, the arrow hangs limply, bite spent, clinging stubbornly on by nothing but its own barbs and a bit of torn flesh.

Almost contemptuously, I tear it out and fling it aside.

Fresh blood wells out, but I know that it will soon cease. Only the skin and thin muscle layer is cut. Still, my predicament is severe. I have seen gruesome infections turn smaller wounds deadly.

Whatever is left of the careers, I cannot return. I would be killed as a deserter. I am in the frightening position of being on my own, while not yet halfway through the Games.

A pair of cannons sound, close together. Then I am in fact barely past halfway through. It is little better.

I will have to shift for myself with only my sword and the clothes on my back. Thank goodness it was misty this morning and I've got the ponchos they issued us at the beginning of the Games. Most of the other careers have switched out for jackets we found in the cornucopia. I know enough from watching previous Games to realize that a large piece of waterproof material will be valuable. But beyond that? What, really, do I know?

There wasn't enough time for us to be trained in every kind of edible plant, and arena environments are so varied that edible plant knowledge, well, they just can't cover all of it. Plus, though bearing the impressive title of "The Academy", District 1 trainees study in little more than a glorified basement. After all, training is still technically illegal. Add to that that the district is urban, and that none of the trainers know a thing about edible plants, and again you have a recipe for disaster.

If only I could have grabbed some food and a first aid kit as I fled! I know there was no time, and yet wishing inevitable happens. What is it, the saying? "If wishes were dishes than no one would starve"?

I shake my head. Here's another wish: I must have sponsors, right? Well, now would be a good time, Helios, I think. So far, my mentor has shown neither hide nor hair. This is normal. He's saving our resources til I'm in real trouble. I think this might qualify.

As if in answer to my unspoken pleas - well, not pleas, more like requests, I'd have done fine on my own, I tell myself - a parachute drifts down. The box underneath it is large, too. It settles slightly to my right, and I lean over and retrieve it. Opening the package, I find ointment, a square bandage with sticky edges, chlorine packet, plastic water bottle, and beef broth powder. Helios has been saving for a while, it seems. Also, it appears I'm not unpopular. Seeing the bounty before me, I put on my best satisfied smirk. That means thank you, in proud District 1 tribute language. Hopefully the sponsors will pick up on it.

I put the dressings on my chest, then drag my wet shirt gingerly back on, shivering miserably. Too bad he couldn't send a heater, or a bon-fire. Things are going to be a little more rough now as a non-career, if this is anything to go by.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

There has been no sign that we are anything but alone in this arena, Byron and I, since the day Hunter died and he found me. We went back to the camp where Danny left me, and collected my supplies, then moved on. As far as food goes, we ran out of the canned stuff days ago, but thankfully this arena hasn't been to difficult when it comes to foraging. Growing up in Five, I don't know much about gathering plants, but I do know how to cook, and Byron knows about animals. Match that with the little I learned in training about things like dandelions, and we're not too hard by.

Apparently District 10 is very dry. Anyway, Byron says he doesn't recognize many of the plants here, where everything is lush and green. We've managed to find a beach, and there are all sorts of tiny crabs and fish and mollusks around among the rocks. There's a salty stream that runs along the shore, then a big sand dune, and then the ocean itself. If we light fires behind the ridge of sand, and use dry wood, no one can see us from the opposite shore.

At night we let the fire die to coals, so that it won't flicker on the trees behind us and give us away.

It's been misty and chilly, but we have a lean-to of driftwood, and the canvas from the tent to drape overtop for protection from the rain, and our ponchos for blankets. With the coals outside, it's not even cold at night.

Now is another matter, as teeth chattering, I wade in the icy stream trying to find food. There are conical creatures that you can rip off the rocks if you're fast enough, and blue shelled things that you can pry open to get at the meat. We've gathered most of them, but I keep sifting among the sand, hoping. I have a few small ones in the pockets of my rolled up pants, and my bare feet are nearly as blue as they in the icy water.

Byron emerges from the forest, giving me a start before I recognize him, and drops an armload of wood on the fire. We've burned most of the stuff on the beach, and had to start searching farther afield.

He pulls a shock of dandelion leaves from one pocket, waving it at me, grinning. I smile, acknowledging his find, and go back to sifting the cold sand. I manage to find another big clump of the blue things, and a three small clams. By that time, I shiver so hard I can barely stand, and concede defeat.

I cannot help but marvel at the change the games have wrought on me. My face is still round, but the rest of me not as much. My hair is tangled and matted, braided at the back of my head. My hands and feet are scarred and scratched from the bushes, rocks, and shells. But I don't feel bad. Tired sometimes, but stronger and prouder. I feel like I can actually work, and work hard. I have a sureness I never knew I possessed. I wonder if mother is proud of me, watching me at night. She must want so badly for me to come home.

A tear stings my eye, thinking of my little brother and sister, their snatching hands that I slapped away from those warm churros the morning of the Reaping. I can smell the cinnamon now, feel the hot butter melting in my mouth. Now everything is tepid and tastes of salt. Salt tears, salt wind, salt water, salty food, salt on my lips and caking my skin. I miss the warmth most of all.

A cannon bangs, shattering the silence. I startle, and another goes off. Two more are gone. The careers must have hit one of the small alliances. I cannot believe that I am still alive in all this madness. The Games are already halfway done.

Bringing my catch to the fire, I pull out the old soup cans we use to cook in. Byron has already filled them at the stream, high up where it leaves the woods and is not so salty.

"Hand me those dandelions?" I ask, and he empties his pockets. I set the greens in the water and place it on the edge of the fire to boil, covering it with a big shell to keep the ashes out.

Then I put the shellfish in the other can and set it out to boil. The first night we smashed them first, cooking the slimy meat, but then they were full of bits of shell and grit, and much of the meat clung to the shells that we threw away and was wasted. Then Byron remembered that he'd eaten shellfish in the Capitol, and that they'd been steamed, still in the shell. The hot shells opened and let you pick out the meat. We tried that, and sure enough, it worked. He's a smart boy, and thoughtful too.

I settle into the sand, letting my frozen fingers and toes thaw by the fire. The mist evaporates in the heat as soon as it touches my face. Sighing, I settle in to wait, watching the orange flames as they flicker and dance.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 16**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

Night has fallen by the time Zita pronounces the food done. The dandelion greens are bitter, the shellfish salty and the broth water around them thin, but it tastes good to me. My arms are tires by the constant search for wood and food, and my legs ache with roving. The cold too saps the very energy from my bones. I'm not used to it. Back home, it must be nearing August. The sun will be sweltering, and dust coating everything.

Now I long for that heat. It sounds comforting, warm, instant of miserably tiring. This cold is ever so much worse, like the absence of warmth sucks at your very will to survive. It would be so easy to sink into apathy.

I pull the last bits of meat from the water with my fingers, and swill down the water it boiled in, grimacing at the salt. We are safeguarding our chlorine tablets for such a time as we won't be able to light a fire and boil our water, so at least I don't have that unpleasant chemical flavor to contend with as well. All the same, I feel like everything is salty and windblown and a strange combination of damp and chapped. I don't like it.

It's hard to believe that I am still alive. Zita too. Her especially. She was long shot, with that training score, and a little old for her sympathy angle. I'm sure she's just as surprised as me that we're still in this.

The more things grind, the more an insane little part of me thinks I can win. Never mind that the careers are still out there. Half of us are gone, but I am not, and that means something no matter how you look at it.

I lie down on the warm sand, watching the fire as it dies. A chilly wind blows in from the sea, and I can hear the waves pick up on the sandy shore. Zita shivers. Not thinking, I reach my arm out and pull us together, trying to stay warm. She sighs and relaxes, laying her head on my shoulder. The wind keeps whistling in the shelter above us. The fire dies lower.

I can feel my eyelids drooping. The anthem shatters the silence, and Zita and I rouse ourselves a little to look up at the sky. We both heard the cannons earlier to day, though neither of us spoke about them.

The face of the boy from District 2 lights up the sky, flickers, and fades. Suddenly I am wide awake. Two is dead? One of the Twos is dead? Four boy, Enzo, the nicest-looking of the careers stares down next, looking down intently at the water, before vanishing forever. Two of the careers are gone! I feel jubilant, and my heart races madly. I am alive and the careers have broken! It's the only thing it could be!

I can win! I know that I can!

I feel Zita let her head droop back tiredly to my shoulder, and am pulled wildly and rudely back to earth. I told myself not two nights ago that I would stay with her. I told her out loud that I wouldn't leave her, not like Danny. I'd stick by her to the end, like Hunter did me.

I remember too thinking of my mother, and how she must feel, seeing myself attaching to another tribute. She must know that I can't come home when the others can't, that it wouldn't be right. But she must also be aching, aching desperately, for her little boy. I bite my lip hard until I taste blood over the salt. I can't keep thinking this way.

Leaning over, I whisper to Zita that the careers are broken. She nods, and gives a deep, shuddering sigh. I can see a tear glinting on her cheek, beneath her dark lashes. I wonder if she's thinking the same thing as me right now, about how badly her family must want her home, and about all the twenty three of us that will be going home in boxes. Digging my foot into the sand, I turn back to the fire and star at it til my eyes sting. I won't think like that! I won't!

* * *

 **Eulogies:**

 **14th Place-Enzo Garrix-speared in the throat by Atalanta Bliss-I loved Enzo. He was arguably my favorite career to write, and was a gentleman to whatever extent a career can bear that name. He was a product of his environment, and just didn't think too hard about the Games, and took participation for granted as being the epitome of glory. His girl, this author, and a lot of others back in his district regret his lack of foresight. Thank you OhParadise for Enzo. He was a joy to write in the moral darkness that is usually the career alliance.**

 **13th Place-Mercury Medall-peritonitis-Mercury was a fun one to write in that he was awfully evil. However, that could only take him so far. He started to stagnate as a character, and I got bored with him, so I killed him, sorry, not sorry. He was a great antagonist, and he ended up on the receiving end of a nasty piece of luck that he just deserved. I gave him a pretty uncomfortable, drawn out death, resulting in lots of POVs, to make up for his early demise. Thank you ChocolateChipHomicide for Mercury, and I'm sorry I couldn't connect well and use him better.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 **Additional note: We're halfway done. Go vote in the poll!**

 ** _Questions:_**

 ** _Who knows what happened to Mercury? (If you don't, know worries, all will be revealed in the recap at the Victor's Coronation)._**

 ** _Who is your bet to win?_**

 ** _Who will go down next?_**

 ** _What do you think of Caspar's Current situation?_**

 ** _Mercury's?_**

 ** _Any other thoughts?_**


	40. Struggle and Compromise - Day 9

**Christmas break and with it a chapter. I'm still not feeling super motivated, but I have the Games outlined POV-by-POV up to Day 12 and plotted all the way to the end, so things should get moving soon.**

 **I can't wait any longer, so I'm going to tell you guys now: start sending in tributes for next time! I haven't decided if it will be a full-blown SYOT, or a partial one, where I pick 2-4 favorites to give POVs and the others are supporting characters. Either way, submit tributes! The form is on my profile, and I would encourage you to read through the rules before making your tribute, as there have been minor changes. No reservations, don't even ask me, because this is not first come first serve, and submissions will remain open until this SYOT is complete. Then and only then will I post the prologue and tribute list for the next story.**

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

It is so hard to keep going. My face is hot, my eyes dry, and my legs so very weak. The daily grind to find food, to stay one step ahead of starvation and death, is wearing me down as slow and sure as any knife. There's a part of me that wants to keep fighting, that knows I don't want to fade away, but it is more and more buried and hard to find.

My arm has long ceased bleeding, and my scraped ribs are safely scabbed over. There is a little bit of swelling, and it's sore, but I think the wound is healing well. There is no sign of the corruption that heralds death.

All the same I feel tired. At every step my feet catch in the brambles and creepers, tangle in the bushes, and sink deep into the soft earth. I don't want to stop and lie down. I have to keep moving, finding food and sustenance or I _will_ die. It is so much harder to muster my resolve.

I think of all the Games that I have seen. I didn't used to like to think about them, but now the images are constantly weaving in and out of my mind, with my own struggle mixed among them. One image and theme is recurring: the victor does not often win by only brute strength. The large number of outer-district victors, despite the Capitol's favoritism, proves that. But it isn't there wits that kept the outer districts alive, either. It is a drive to survive, a will to live, that not everyone has. I can feel mine slipping through my fingers.

I am not particularly hungry, or pained, or cold, or any other one deadly thing. I simply feel so tired. I can feel myself approaching a point where even death will seem worth it to gain safe, uninterrupted rest. Sleep is a luxury and what I crave more than anything else.

The pain in my arm keeps me awake. My hunger keeps me awake. My fear keeps me awake. The revoltingness of my own unwashed self keeps me awake. I begin to feel that I will never really rest again.

I must have walked miles since the Games began. Roving for food, restless nights, gasping flight, all combined into one endless, grinding march. My face and hands are covered with dirt, grit ground deep under my nails. My hair is greasy and limp, knotted back into a tight braid to keep out of my way. My face is chapped by the cold, my toes are wrinkled by the damp.

This arena cannot make up its mind about the weather. The first day was foggy, the next sunny, and mist, light rain, and near-sweltering heat have all alternated fitfully through the week or more we have spent here. It is yet another thing that I cannot predict or control, one more thing to gall me.

In training, we are supposed to prepare for the Games. It is a pathetically small amount of time to prepare for something to huge and long. There is no real way to tell us ahead of time what to expect. One has to experience the terror and the mud and the horrid living for oneself. It's like a war. Even the careers are not prepared, not really. They know how to use their weapons, but they don't know how to kill. It is all training, how they really apply it remains to be seen. They could completely freeze up and be killed in the bloodbath. A boy from Six could win by not being afraid to lie for days, buried to the neck in the mud. It is a strange, strange world.

And cruel, and wrong.

We are so young. What do we know of all this?

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

I have more than managed to cope with my new situation. Leaning sticks together into a sort of cone, with my poncho draped overtop, makes an excellent shelter. I have dried out since my impromptu swim in the pond the other day, and am beginning to become acquainted with the wealth of things to eat that grow here. Blackberries, salmonberries, huckleberries, and apples (slightly green) grow in abundance. There are dandelions, lamb's quarters, miner's lettuce, and other edible plants in profusion. I had one close call where I nearly made my last mistake and thought a piece of poison hemlock was carrot, but remembered my lessons just in time.

It is good that most careers do not learn to gather in the wild, for it gives me a supreme advantage. I am not frightened, and I will not suffer from hunger or thirst. There are clean streams of water and all the things I could ever want to eat. I suppose that eating plants will become monotonous eventually, but the Games must be nearly halfway over. I will hold out. And with my bow, I should be able to take some game.

The weather is not cold enough to kill me. It is not wet enough to kill me, or windy enough, or hot enough, or anything. This is a survivor's paradise, at least as arenas go.

Last night, I was surprised to see that Mercury and Enzo were dead. Enzo I expected. No one can survive having their throat severed. I thought Mercury was still hanging on. People shouldn't be able to survive and arrow squarely in the chest. One of those two cannons should have belonged to Caspar. I simply cannot make head or tail of it. Even if he is strong, I shot him in the chest! Even if I missed his heart, his lungs would have filled with blood and drowned him. It makes no sense whatever. A strong constitution or physical fitness cannot save a person from a punctured lung. The only tributes ever to have survived that injury were victors, who sustained their terrible wounds in the final battle and were promptly treated.

He ought to be dead! There is no getting around it! The more I think, the less it makes sense, and it torments me. I like to be on top of things.

The not knowing is torturous, I think, heaping more berries into pockets. They are already stained purple with blackberry juice. There is a rustle in the bushes, and I pick up my bow from where I have it set, strung and ready. It must be suffering, strung all the time and straining the limbs, but I have no choice. I must be in a position of ready defense.

This threat turns out to be nothing more than a bushy gray squirrel, holding a small, round nut in its mouth. I recognize it as a chestnut. Slowly, I climb to my feet, but the squirrel runs off. Then I hear its claws on the bark of a tree, carefully sighting, I let the arrow fly. The squirrel falls, the nut beside it, destroyed by my arrow. The points are really too wide for such small game, but I prepare it with my small knife anyway. There is enough meat left to make it worth it. I open the nut and pop it in my mouth. It is crisp and starchy, like a raw potato, but it doesn't taste bad. Holding the squirrel in one hand, dangling by its bushy tail - the only part I didn't skin - I move back into the woods to search for more food.

In the damp loam under the trees, I am not surprised to encounter mushrooms. I have already seen dozens, and the sight does not surprise me. What is different about these is I recognize them. They are a luxury food in District 2, wrinkled and small, but very juicy and delicious. Fried in butter, they accentuate the meals of the wealthy. My grandmother prepared them once while entertaining the mayor's wife and son. I blush at the memory. I believe gran thought there was something between the two of us. I did not care for the boy.

Absently, I finger the rings in my ears, as I always do when I think of gran. The hole in my nose is empty. I was told that bringing all my earrings as my token, singular, was already a stretch, and the nose ring was going too far. What did they think I was going to do with it? Stab someone? It's a ring, not even a pin. I remember gran giving me the rings and telling me to stand tall and I sigh. I wish she had lived to see me.

Gently, I uproot the wrinkled morels from their hiding place nestled against a log. My mouth waters already. Fried in the grease of the fatty squirrel, with the berries for dessert, I will have a meal near-fit for a king.

Pocketing the small mushrooms, I stand and continue foraging. While training, we didn't cover mushrooms much. It was basically 'don't eat them, too many are poisonous, if it's wet enough for mushrooms there will be other plants'. Well, I recognize these, so it ought to be safe.

Shaking my head, I think once again with annoyance of antagonistic Caspar. It's really a pity I didn't kill him. It would have made breaking the career pack almost worth it.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

In my hunger, I have become bolder. No more do I spend the days cowering under my trees in the middle of the field. I forage, desperate for real sustenance. Frogs, insects, plants, seeds, nestlings, none are safe. I never anticipated this hunger. It is degrading.

I know that the boy from District 3 is in these woods, since I saw him three days ago during that first desperate foray into the woods. I have not seen him since, but I have managed to keep my fire, started with a stolen coal, burning. I still cannot believe it was I who robbed him. It seems like some other desperate person, never me. I am the timid deaf girl, that hardly speaks and never hears.

I wonder what father and Henry think, watching me. They must be terrified for me. I wonder if father is glad, now, that uncle taught me with that bow. A simple stick it may have been, and I have no bow now, but that simple act of learning to defend myself all those years ago developed me as a fighter. I will not lie down now. Never.

Creeping through the woods, hopefully silently, I cram handfuls of berries into my mouth, letting the juice run down my chin. My hair is matted, my arms scratched and webbed with cuts. I must look feral, stalking in fear and hunger through the woods. My foot catches on a root and I go down. My hand lands in something soft, and warm. Looking down, I see a pile of offal, the guts of some small animal. A squirrel, I think a moment later, seeing the fuzzy skin and toothy head lying in the leaves.

Not hesitating, I cram them into my pockets. I will cook them, somehow, in the leaves over my stolen fire beneath the trees. Meat! I haven't seem much of it. This is something. I wonder who was foolish enough to waste this.

Who?

The head is cut clean, not snapped off. Someone used a knife. The air is cold. The guts are warm. They were here recently. I am in mortal danger. Standing, trying to quiet my shaking limbs, I creep back into the forest, fighting the urge to run. If I run, I will never stop. I will be loud, crashing through obstacles. I will be found, and that knife, still gory from the squirrel, will kill me. I force myself to walk, a living shadow as I slip through the trees.

It feels like hours as I slip along, trying to be quiet, maddened by my inability to know. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure I am not being followed. I could not hear a pursuer if they were there. The terror is excruciating.

Finally I reach my meadow, and, dropping to all fours, I crawl through the grass like a snake until I reach my tree. Falling back against the trunk, I shake and shake, frightened half to death and amazed that I am still alive. Again, it has been brought home to me how tenuous life in the arena is, and what a disadvantage I am at compared to the others. Somehow, though, that isn't demoralizing, or at least not crushingly so. Instead, it urges me to keep fighting. I do not intend to die in this arena.

I will not be the victim.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

Something rustles past in the bushes, and I tense, frozen. It fades away into the distance, and again, I relax. The woods are beautiful right now, with the sun filtering through the fir trees and their trunks starching like great columns up to the light. I can't revel in the beauty. The careers are broken, half the tributes are gone, and the games are in their ninth day. Soon, things will come to a head, and I do not feel prepared. It is only a matter of time before the gamemakers start forcing us together.

For the last few days I have managed to push Zita out of my mind. Obviously, I was wrong, she _can_ get by without me, and it was not wrong for me to leave her behind, or so I tell myself. As usual, I banish these thoughts before I can go too deep.

Distracting, a strident beeping sounds over the noise of the birdsong. A tall silver container attached to a parachute lands beside me, six inches tall and at least twice as wide. Excited, I pull the cylinder out from under the parachute and unscrew it, beaming. It is my first sponsor gift, and it is a big one.

Delighted, I spread the parachute and dump the contents of the gift out on its folds. I gasp.

Metal gadgets, wire, and gizmos lie in a heap, and two sealed packets of powder sit gleaming dully. I know what this is. My stomach ties itself in knots. I have been sent everything I need to build a bomb.

I remember the train, where I befriended Solder as I asked to use her curling iron to crimp the metal around the curl of hair ebony handed to me. I remember Willi, choosing to have her brother mentor her and Solder mentor me. Solder is not unperceptive. She knows that I paid attention in my classes. She knows that I am innovative. She knows that I will recognize these seemingly harmless oddments and turn them into something far more deadly.

I have to swallow to fight the dryness in my mouth.

The tapes. Images of the war in the Dark Days. Of bombs and flying bodies, missing limbs, lethal shrapnel and hamburgered flesh. I swallow back bile. I have an instrument of awful destruction at my fingertips. I know that if I make the decision to use this gift, to build a bomb, I will never go back. I will just keep compromising and compromising until nothing of me is left.

Stronger than the pain of the Dark Days, the pain I would cause, are the District 3 tributes over the years, smart kids, often, but small. Career bait. Tortured to death a dozen different ways. I cannot be another name on a stone in the tribute graveyard.

Lying down, I cushion prop my elbows against the ground, put my far over the parachute, pick up the wires, and begin to work. There will be no going back.

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 **Additional note: We're halfway done. Go vote in the poll, if you didn't last chapter!**

 ** _Questions:_**

 ** _How is Danny being affected by the Games?_**

 ** _Is this a good thing or not?_**

 ** _Where do you see him going?_**

 ** _What about Cristina? Where is she headed?_**

 ** _And Capri?_**

 ** _Where will Eleanor go?_**

 ** _Who is your current favorite and why?_**

 ** _Any developments you'd like to see in your tribute(s)?_**


	41. Fighters and Friends - Day 10

**I'm motivated all of a sudden. The end is in sight. I'm going to finish this story or perish in the attempt! And I'm going to finish it by February. That's my goal. Ready. Set. Go.**

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

I wake up feeling peculiar, despite last night's feasting. I ought to be feeling well, ready to go on the hunt, but I don't. Instead, I feel nauseous and bloated, as though I hadn't eaten much at all. My muscles are tight and sore, and as I sit up my stomach lurches and my head throbs painfully. I feel hung over, not that I would know what that feels like.

My throat is very dry, and I climb awkwardly to my feet and make my way over to the stream, lying gingerly down on my stomach and gulping the cold water. It cools my uncomfortable face, but my stomach rumbles and sloshes in protest of the added content. I hope I don't throw up. That would not be good, isn't good on normal occasions, and in the arena could be lethal. I can't exactly go on three days of bed rest and hope the gamemakers or another tribute don't kill me.

Groaning, I walk shakily over to my bow. I ought to try and find some fresh greens to eat, something to settle my stomach. Dandelion is a diarrhetic in large quantities and probably not a good idea right now. Holding my bow, I move out farther afield, stomach protesting all the way.

There are a few blackberries growing along the path and I eat them greedily, willing the sweetness to banish the heavy, leaden taste in my mouth. It works, after a fashion.

It feels surprisingly cold for what I am used to in this arena. Even with the down jacket I claimed in the bloodbath and have worn much of the time since, the cold has a way of working into my bones. I feel so tired and stiff that I can't put up much of a fight against it. This was probably a bad idea. If another tribute finds me, I am in no condition to fight. I should go back and rest and hope the gamemakers are feeling forgiving and don't sic a mutt on me.

I turn, wobbling, and try to make out the trail I followed. The bushes keep going up and down for a few seconds after I stop, then settle. Still, I'm not sure which way I came. It's no use sitting here. I pick a direction and go.

The bushes catch at my legs, threatening to trip me as I move forward. I clench desperately to my bow, knowing I can't drop it. I reach up a hand to reassure myself that my arrows still hang on my back. They are there, but the motion almost unbalances me and I lurch drunkenly to the side. The air around me rings and buzzes. I have to find a place before I faint.

This is absolutely humiliating. The thought buzzes at the front of my mind as my vision begins to tunnel and dance. Long grass tickles at my legs, then around my elbows as I collapse to my hands and knees. I try to get up, but the world rocks and I can't keep my feet. My stomach heaves at the swirling motion and what's left of my dinner falls to the grass around me. The acrid stench of vomit fills the air. I try to keep crawling, but can't. The last thing I remember is the cool earth striking my cheek, and the buzzing in my ears cutting off.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

I cannot help but be increasingly aware of my status as a static character. The Games are a big show, and I am becoming boring. How long do people want to watch me skulk in the bushes, rooting around for bugs and scrounging for edible leaves? Perhaps it was exciting for a day or two as I learned to stave off starvation, but by now everyone must be on to me.

In the endless silent days at home where I watched the television until my eyes glazed over, filling my head with re-runs of old Games and ridiculous, glittering stories instead of facing the echoing silence in my own mind, I learned a lot of things. One thing about the Games: boring doesn't play well. There have been tributes that, like me, hide for much of the Games, focusing their limited energy on the daily chore of staying alive, hoping the others will all kill one another. Those tributes tend to make it far, past the bloodbath, definitely, and often into the lower reaches of the final eight.

After that, there are only two endings: they go on the offensive, or they die. And they do not die gently. These are tributes whose only focus is to stay alive, and they accomplish it well. So well that the careers never find them on their own. So the gamemakers lend a helping hand. These once-boring children become set pieces.

Horrendous mutts to tear one limb from limb. Fire and earthquakes and rockslides, venomous snakes, ravening wolves, anything you can think of and a lot of things that you can't, or would rather not, descend in an army. If a tribute is very lucky, perhaps they fight against these creatures, and the blood of the beasts placates the audience for a little while. More often they run, and are pursued into the arms of the waiting career pack.

Once caught, their lives are short and agonizing. This far into the Games, the careers have all the time in the world. They want to be memorable. And so they are merciless.

These are the times when the echoing silence was better than to watch. When these moments appeared on screen, I would turn away, the human drama spent and changed only to sickening brutality. I cannot even repeat some of the things that I have seen, not in the re-runs, when I could turn away or turn it off, but when it was Nine's tributes, being mauled live in real time.

Nine seems to suffer that fate a lot, as do Three and Eleven. Smart districts, and used to surviving. Not weak, like Twelve and Eight, not tenacious fighters like Seven and Six and Ten. Not brainy, but with knowledge rarely helpful in the arena, like Five. No, we three districts are the survivors. Used to the Capitol's wrath, we must adapt at home, and we apply it to the arena. And when the time comes and the hammer falls, we fail and we die, still clawing and scratching to survive. It always takes so long, and ends cruelly.

If I cannot find a way to fight, this will be my fate. I need an inspiration, an opportunity, but nothing seems to quench the fact that when I cannot hear myself moving, any sneak attacks will fail, and I am too slight and un-skillful for a direct attack. I am caught between a rock and a hard place.

Right at this moment, opportunity staggers into my lap. I freeze as the girl from District 2 appears on the edge of the woods, then relax as I notice that something is wrong. Besides, she would never see me, smeared in the grime of the arena and ensconced in the branches of my tree.

Her footsteps are heavy and she staggers and weaves like a drunk. Then her knees give way and she lurches forward, crawling a half-circle before vomiting and collapsing. I frown. Initially, her staggering steps could have been a ruse, but the vomiting seems unlikely. The pieces begin to click. It's not unheard of for tributes to become sick or poisoned. Two careers died two days ago. Likely the pack is broken. If she is alone and hunted, the odds that she ate something bad, or drank bad water, are good.

Then I see the silver shape clenched in her hand, and a wild audacity I have never known fills me. This is the chance I have been waiting for. A bow, my weapon, in my grasp. Lightly, I drop from the tree and run forward. She twitches a few times before falling still. I pause, then continue on.

Inching up beside her, wrinkling my nose at the smell of vomit, I uncurl her fingers one by one from the bow and lift it up. I try to pull off the quiver, but it won't come. She is too heavy for me to lift her and unbuckle it, especially in my near-emaciated arena condition. I grab the arrows in a fistful and straighten up. Then and only then do I see that her eyes are open and looking straight into my face.

Startled, terrified, I leap into the air, releasing my grip on the arrows. I sprint into the woods on the winged feet of terror, and fling myself down behind a log when my lungs can take no more air. My face tingles with the effort, beaded in sweat, and my heart pounds crazily as I suck great gulps of oxygen. There is no visible sign of pursuit. Two arrows are still clenched haphazardly in my grubby fingers, the others are scattered and lost in my mad flight. Once I have recovered my breath, I nock one to the string and make my way back along the way I came as best I can. I should be safe, as I am armed and the girl is not.

Along the way I find one more arrow and pick it up.

Reaching the meadow, I find the girl gone. She must have gotten to her feet agin and staggered away. If she was feigning, she never would have let me take the bow. Only the silver shape in my hand and the vomit-smeared grass convince me that the whole affair was anything more than a strange dream. Despite the loss of most of the arrows, a grin breaks out on my face. I have a bow. I am no longer completely defenseless.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

It is time for me to stop sitting still. My leg is fully recovered, I am strong again, fed on blackberries and cattails and clean water, and now hot food, the delicacies I took from the careers. My two knives hang heavy on either hip. I am no longer a passive character. It is time for me to be hunting.

I stalk through the trees, searching for any sign of a tribute nearby, when I begin to smell smoke. Moving quietly I slip through the trees, wincing at every snap and crackle. I have never been particularly light on my feet. The sounds seem loud to me, and I hope that I haven't given myself away. I could be killed for it. I wonder for a moment if perhaps the tribute is Cristina, the deaf girl from Nine, then hate myself for it. It would feel wrong to kill her. I drown that thought before it begins leading to other complicated ones.

The fire comes into sight, and any doubts I had about the morality of my kill vanish. It is Caspar, the boy from One. To kill him would be to do the world a favor.

There he lies, snoring beside his fire, oblivious to my approach. I draw my longer knife and inch forward.

I feel the branch under my foot a split second too late. Like the click of a mine, I feel it bend under my foot and I try to step off before the inevitable loud SNAP rends the air. The boy's eyes fly open, and he is on his feet, sword in hand, faster than I ever would have thought possible. It would be cowardly to back down now. I swallow my fear and lunge forward, hoping he won't expect it.

I appear to be correct as he is slow to bring up the sword, instead grabbing my wrist with his hand. I twist it down before he can bring the sword into play, and break back, panting.

Wary, aware now of the other's skill, we circle one another, both unwilling to begin the attack. I can see dried blood staining his shirt, and I narrow my eyes. That is an advantage I exploit. "What happened to your leg, pretty boy?" I taunt, knowing full well that there is nothing wrong with his leg. The surprise has the desired effect, as he glances down at his leg, losing his concentration for a split second. I lunge for the opening.

He staggers back under my assault, deflecting the knife but unable to avoid my darting punch for his injured chest. He cries out and trips sideways, before recovering himself, and the deadly circling dance resumes. I can see the point of his sword weaving in front of me, and I see what an advantage in reach he has over me. Suddenly, I think better of my recklessness. He is injured. He won't go far. I can always come back and finish the job. The moment I have the thought I know the fight is over. If I charge again with that attitude I will die.

Instead, I run into the forest, face burning with embarrassment. At least I attacked. And I didn't trip over my own feet. There must have been _something_ in it.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 16**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

"C'mon," I tell Zita, grinning at her obvious discomfort. "You can't just hang out at camp all the time! We have to go farther afield to find decent food. Seriously, it's safer than staying here alone, which you've done a number of times."

She shakes her head stubbornly, feet spread and planted in the sand as though afraid I'll grab her hand and try to drag her along. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, knowing somehow that it would be the wrong gesture. I can't believe she wants to stay behind. It's the first really sunny, beautifully warm day we've had since the first few days of the Games, and we ought to take advantage of that. Anyone could see it. I try another tack.

"It's so warm out," I remind her. "Maybe we could find a stream or something and have a wash?" I can tell somehow that she's one for regular, warm baths. I just can tell. Maybe it's the fluffed hair, the hesitancy, or the unwillingness to get down and dirty. She's not just shy. She has her own way of doing things. It's tempting to consider that wimpy, but it really is not. Who honestly enjoys being in a permanent state of muddy, wet shivering? I don't, and I'm no patsy, at least not to my knowledge.

"C'mon," I say again, nodding my head in the direction of the woods.

She twists her hands nervously, glancing with apprehension toward the forest. It isn't that forbidding in the sunlight, but I suppose she really isn't used to it, and it is a _little_ nerve-wracking in among the trees where every noise seems like a threat.

She shrugs, acknowledging defeat, and steps off toward me. Satisfied that she'll follow, I head forward, slowing my normally fast, swinging walk down a little to her pace by shortening my strides. The air is unseasonably warm, it seems, though of course I cannot tell for certain what season it really is, and used to the heat of Ten as I am, it still feels slightly chilly.

It is shady under the trees, and smells fresh and clean, the dew baking off the leaves. Before long we hear the gurgling of a brook and make tracks straight for the sound.

A small stream, swollen with the rain a few days back, gurgles merrily over the sand. It is swift-running and looks clean enough. There are still a few chlorine tablets left, so we play it safe and fill cans with water, disinfecting it before drinking. Zita leans out over the stream, craning her neck to look at a bird or something on the other side. I'm not paying much attention, focused on digging for the roots of the few cattails on the bank, when the branch she has anchored herself with breaks and she falls with a little shriek into the stream.

She sits up a moment later, soaked and bedraggled, and I'm a moment too late to muffle a bark of laughter at her plight.

Her eyes flash and she tears into me. "What are you laughing at?" she demands. "It isn't funny at all. I'm soaked to the skin! Be a gentleman and help me up."

Smothering my amusement, I bend down and offer my hand as gallantly as I can. Her fingers close over it, and I see a spark of mischief in her eyes. The smile wipes from my face. She wouldn't . . .

She does.

With a sharp jerk, she pulls me down to land with an ungainly splash beside her, doused to the skin in the freezing water. I sit up, spluttering and glaring. Her laughter rings out clearly over the gurgle of the stream. Eying her balefully, I spit a stream of water and shove my soaked bangs out of my eyes. Then I splash a wave of water at her, ruining her hair again as she tries to push it back.

Yelling something inarticulate, she douses me right back. In moments, we are laughing and shouting, noises cut off periodically by mouthfuls of water, slipping and sliding in the silt, muddying the stream. Exhausted and shivering, cheeks glowing, we flop down on the bank, still laughing a little.

"That was more fun than I expected," she gasps, flopping into the ferns. Then, ruefully: "I'm rather a wreck." She holds out her dripping arms and inspects them critically.

"It wouldn't be fun any other way," I say, grinning at her comical annoyance. "Look at me!" I spread my arms, dripping gritty water. We must look a pretty pair of fools, but I don't care. It doesn't feel like a serious situation anymore, and I welcome the release of tension.

"Oh, I wish we could stay like this!" she breathes, staring up at the sky. "I wouldn't care about being wet!"

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

 _Not when I'm with you,_ I think, but I don't add that part out loud. The truth is, I have found a better friend than I ever had at home, here in the arena, in mortal peril, I feel fulfilled and happy. I wonder if this is what love feels like. I always imagined love as dazzling and romantic: meeting a dance, all bright colors and delicious food and perfume and laughter. And yet I am happier here, soaked to the skin beside a muddy stream, than I have been anywhere else. It is a peculiar world.

The loss of Danny's friendship still aches. I felt some of this too with him. And then he left. I pray with all my heart that Byron will never leave me.

Impetuous, I turn and look at him.

"Did you swim much in Ten?"

"Swimming?" he laughs. "No, I can't swim. Not more than a few strokes, anyway. There was a watering hole that we used to splash in, but it was shallow. Like this is. It wasn't swimming." He shakes his head.

"I can't swim," I say. "Otherwise I would have struck out toward that mountain and left this island behind. Do you think the District 4s tried that?"

"No," Byron says slowly. "No. I think that that mountain probably isn't even real. Probably any tribute that tried to swim to the mainland would be turned back somehow."

I don't like where this conversation has begun to lead. I don't want to discuss the Games.

"Are there mountains in Ten?" I ask, steering the conversation back to our homes and not to this strange new reality we now live.

"Not really," he answers. "It's pretty flat. Lot's of dust, and cactuses. Have you ever seen one?"

"No," I answer truthfully. "What are they? Some sort of animal?"

"No," he laughs. "They're plants. Some are quite small, others are taller than a man on a horse. They all have fleshy leaves and most have some sort of covering of spines. If you get lost out in the heat, you can drink the moisture inside a cactus. And there are prickly pears. The flowers are beautiful, and they turn into delicious fruit. You have to peel them before you eat them though. Otherwise your mouth would be filled with spines."

"Ouch," I say.

"Yeah. How about you? What is Five like?"

"Well," I start slowly. "There aren't very many plants. A few trees, down by the river and the reservoir above the dam, and there's grass in some places. As for animals, it's mostly rats. There are fish in the river too, but we aren't supposed to catch them. Something about interrupting the spawning cycle and destroying Four. Some of the kids catch them. Some even swim in the river. I've never been brave enough," I finish, a little shamefaced.

"That's just being smart," he says. "It doesn't make you a coward to follow rules. Some of the kids back home are probably laughing at that." Now he looks a little ashamed.

"Are you good boy, then?" I ask, smiling.

"Like, you mean a goody goody?" he asks. He laughs once. "Not really. At least I don't think so. Like I said, some of the boys in my school would probably argue that. I'm not mischievous. I don't really get fulfillment from doing things I'm not supposed to."

"Oh?" I ask. "What does fulfill you?"

"This is probably stupid," he says. "Don't laugh?"

"I'll try not to," I say, already cracking a smile.

"Well, I think that there isn't anything much better than putting a smile on someone's face."

My smile vanishes.

"There," he says, "look what I've don. Wiped it right off your face, huh? Am I silly?"

"No, not at all," I assure him quickly. "That isn't why I stopped smiling. I think that's a good thing to do. I think it's serious."

"Really? Not many think that way."

"No, I really do." I say. "If you don't mind me asking, what makes it special?"

"Have you heard that people actually feel better if they make the effort to smile? It actually improves mood?" Seeing the look on my face, he continues on. "Well, it's been said. Whether it's true or not I don't really know, but I sure like to think it is. After all, it isn't that hard to get someone to smile. Sometimes it is though. That's what can make it a challenge. Sometimes _I_ don't feel like smiling." A shadow crosses his face.

Somehow, some sixth sense that women have, I know what he's thinking about. "Hunter?" I ask softly.

He nods once, not meeting my eyes.

"He was brave." I say. There really isn't anything else to be said.

This seems to take the wind out of our sails, reminding us where we really are, and that we won't both be coming out, even if one of us does. This isn't a country picnic where we can act like silly schoolchildren. This situation is deadly serious. And suddenly, there is something I have to say.

"You'll remember me, won't you Byron Calvert?"

He looks at me, but doesn't ask questions. He just nods, once. And I trust him.

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 **Additional note: We're halfway done. Go vote in the poll, if you didn't last chapter or the chapter before!**

 ** _Questions:_**

 ** _What is Eleanor's problem?_**

 ** _How will the new developments affect Cristina?_**

 ** _How is Ricotta developing? Where do you see this leading for her character?_**

 ** _What about Zita and Byron? Are they in love? If not, what are they?_**

 ** _Where do you see this leading for them?_**


	42. Red Storm Rising - Day 11

**Probably you wish I'd updated over Christmas. I elected to spend time with family. Sorry, but not really. I'm sure you guys understand.**

 **Additionally, I joined swim team and will have a lot less time to write. After January 3rd, when school and swim start up, I'll be confining my updates\writing time to Saturdays. Still committed to finishing, though, however long it may take.**

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

After the break up of the pack, things have settled down considerably. I am disappointed in myself for giving in to anger; if I had kept a level head perhaps Cyma and I could have tracked Caspar and Eleanor. As it is, they seem to have gotten safely away, and we are faced with the prospect of one of the more lengthy Games. After all, it is already day twelve.

It is not unheard of for the Games to continue as long as a month. If a gamemaker is good enough to manage to hold the interest of the audience without large amounts of actual killing, days may pass without a death. The key is that the audience not get bored. These have been a long Games, but not boring. In the very beginning, the terrain, that is, the fact that we were launched into water, made it difficult to move quickly and gather kills. As a result, the bloodbath was small. The thick underbrush made our hunting largely futile. And the arena appears to be brimming with game and plants, though which ones are edible I mostly don't know.

Mercury's illness no doubt made the gamemakers sit back for a while as all watched him slowly die. The other tributes must also be providing their own dramas in non-deadly fashion. This puts Cyma and I in an awkward position. Half the tributes still remain, and we are the closest thing to a career pack left, however we can't guard the cornucopia and hunt at the same time. Unless we want to be raided, we need to stay close to the supplies.

Cyma and I discussed this problem last night, and she told me that a significant part of her training was spent in working with camouflage. She feels as though she is actually competent, even good. If we hid and camouflaged the supplies, we would be free to rove the arena.

It is with this in mind that I am now staggering along the water's edge, carrying the last and largest bin, drenched to the skin from walking through the water (some of the bales wouldn't fit in the canoe) and trying not to trip over anything. Finally, I reach the spot where Cyma is working, digging holes to bury boxes, covering the fresh earth with pine needles, and carefully marking the spots with rocks.

Huffing and panting, I drop the box down next to her and fall to the earth, rubbing my sore palms on my pants. I am sweaty from carrying the boxes, but my feet are cold and my legs covered in gooseflesh from the cold water. The weather has taken another turn for the worse. Yesterday it was sunny, now clouds block out the sun and compress the air. It is gloomy and miserable, especially to poor drenched me.

Getting up, feeling like a fool for not remembering sooner, I open one of the stacked bins that Cyma hasn't hidden yet and take out a fresh pair of pants and a clean shirt. I was smart enough not to wear my jacket while ferrying the supplies, and it is dry. Going behind a tree, I strip down to the tank top and undershorts we were issued before the Games, thankful that the underthings are fairly modest. I am not a shy person, but being broadcast naked would be exceedingly awkward.

Dressed again, I step out from the cover and take a closer look at the job Cyma has done. The smaller articles she has hidden among the bushes or inside of a hollow log. The big bins she has buried.

"Excellent," I say. "I'd never know they were there."

Cyma smiles. "That's what I was going for."

I sit down, leaning back against a tree, watching as Cyma buries the last box. Then she flops down beside me.

"A good day's work," she pants, stretching and surveying her muddy, slightly blistered fingers ruefully. "I'm glad we got it done now."

"Me too," I say. "The sooner the better. We'll be able to get moving. Be a real pack again." I feel a little awkward saying it. We are both hunters by nature, and this will come to a head sooner or later. For now, I feel she is almost a friend. But I must stay guarded.

"Not just that," she answers. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Noticed what?"

"There's a storm on the way. Back in District 4, we can see the thunderheads rolling in from the sea, but before even that, you can feel, or smell, that it's in the air. The air is heavier, is the only way I can think to describe it."

I nod, taking in the information. Now that she mentions it, there _is_ an edge to the air. A sense of expectancy, and almost fear. I feel a little shiver run over my skin.

I wonder how big it will be, and if this is why the gamemakers have been biding their time.

* * *

 **Cyma Dolore, 18**

 **District 4 Female**

* * *

Atalanta seems very at ease with our current arrangement. I cannot say that I am. Her easy, almost friendly manner sends red flags flying in ever direction. Relationships of any kind in the Games are truly dangerous. Her friendship - whether real, or, more likely, feigned - is a distraction and a hindrance. Only one of us can get out. This is a competition, and in no way a team effort. The whole essence of a career victor hinges on betrayal and outwitting of the others.

She seems to view this as its title, as a game, a friendly competition with stakes that are deadly but at the moment not at all pressing. I cannot take this view. We are kill or be killed.

I finger the knife at my hip, resolving never to let my guard down for one second; an easy, seemingly harmless mistake could become fatal swiftly. I must keep my eyes open and my wits about me at all times.

The cold metal is reassuring to my fingertips. I killed the District 6 girl, but it was not a fair, sporting chase. The others were with me, holding her, giving me the kill. I finished it quickly, with no relish in toying with her, for she was lower than prey. It was an uneven match, and worthless to linger in. I long for the thrill of a real chase.

Perhaps the tributes will be on the move from the storm. I vow not to sleep tonight, to be ready for battle. I will stay up and keep watch, and wait for something to move into my path.

It is a game of cat and mouse, and the storm will flush the mice before the cat. I draw one of my throwing knives and draw my fingernails along the razor-sharp blades, feeling them catch along the tops, drawing thin white lines across the pink. My claws are sharp, and I am ready to pounce.

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

After a day and a half spent tinkering with wires, I am ready to set the fruits of my labors and sponsor gift into action. Tonight I will sneak to the cornucopia and set the mine near the landing place of the careers. With any luck, when they beach their canoe tomorrow morning, they will be blown into smithereens so small the hovercraft will need a spatula attachment to bring them home.

The image of the careers hamburgered across the gravel and trees is a satisfying one, and I am a little frightened by the ease with which I have turned my talents to destruction. But my mind is made up.

If I ever want to come home, if I ever want my dreams to mean anything, if I ever want to see Ebony, this plan must succeed. Without a willingness to fight, I won't get home. It is simple cause and effect. Rudimentary science. If I don't try, I am guaranteed a 100% chance of failure, at least in this situation. No one has ever, _ever,_ in the history of the Games, won without trying.

And none have won without death on their hands. Even the ones that never stuck a knife in anyone else, the survivors, like Wiress Plummer, set traps or hid until others died. They may not have stabbed or murdered, but they deprived another of life simply by their own living.

I am not a bad person for wanting to get home, any more than I am a bad person for leaving Zita, now little more than a dream. I am simply a survivor and a fighter.

In the air, vibrating with heaviness, a cannon booms. It barely startles me, though it stays in my mind. I only care that I am one step closer to home, and to life.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

The air has the heavy scent it holds before a storm. A sense of the world holding its breath as the sky builds up its fury, a ticking time bomb of nature's wrath. It is so quiet and still, and every imagined flicker of movement sends my hands twitching on the loaded bow. I have spent the day in one of my trees, holding an arrow to the string. I am too frightened to do otherwise, and constant vigilance is my only protector.

I feel like a fool for running, jumping from an imagined threat, and losing most of my arrows yesterday. If I had been level-headed, I could have killed the girl from Two. The deaf girl from Nine could have gathered an easy career kill. Now she has vanished back into the woods where I dare not follow.

For the first time since the Games began, my situation is stable enough that I begin to feel sorry for myself. Why do I have to be deaf? Beyond that, why did I have to be Reaped? I wonder, if I won, if the Capitol could repair my ear. It's a hope I haven't wanted to hold out for myself, but it seems like thy can do anything. Victors missing limbs, faces smashed, arteries severed, gutted, horribly wounded, barely able to breathe . . . they all put them back together. Could they work the same miracle on my ear? Would they?

I still feel that I was Reaped for my brother and father's crimes. If they had not been so rebellious, perhaps I could have lived. I must play the Game very carefully to show the Capitol that I am loyal to them.

But am I? Shouldn't I be focusing my deepest anger on the ones who sent me here for their own entertainment. I swat the thought away like an irritating insect. No, I must not think that way, to do so would be to sign my death sentence.

I could win. I begin to believe that. The career pack has broken. I have the bow. The Two girl seemed at death's door. I used the bow yesterday, firing a few times at my tree, and was able to hit it. The memories come back slowly, and this bow is more powerful and harder to draw back than the springy branches and crude, hand fashioned arrows my uncle gave me to practice with, but a bow is a bow, and I begin to think that I can win.

I run my hand over the smooth metal arc in my hand, memorizing every curve. It will save my life. It will be what takes me home. I will sail on my arrows to victory. The very rebelliousness, the very refusal to cooperate, may be what save me from death here. The world has a droll sense of humor indeed.

And another steps out of the trees. Without thinking, memory of a thousand games and a hundred shots, I raise my bow and send an arrow speeding toward the soft torso of the girl from District 10.

. . .

The cannon fires.

I watched the girl as she lay, as she crawled toward me, shouting, yelling, mouth moving soundlessly. My lack of hearing lent the whole affair a sense of ethereal surreality. The bow in my hands feels harder than it did before, harder and more threatening. I hold a weapon, not a toy.

* * *

 **Ricotta Erripe, 16**

 **District 10 Female**

* * *

As I step from the fringe of trees a sudden violent impact slams into my right side and spins me around and over. I topple, gasping, the wind knocked out of me, my chest burning in sudden agony, and look down.

I sob.

Standing out from my side, cruel metal shaft already stained with blood, is a silver arrow. I drop my head to the dry grass, a breathing corpse trying to stay alive. I will die. I will die. I will die. I want it to be fast. I want it to be over, oh, I already know that I will die.

Reaching down, I grasp the shaft and try to pull the head from my skin, but it burns like fire at the smallest movement and I jerk my hand away. I only want the pain to stop. I want to pull the arrow out, let the blood leak out, just let me die. Who fired the shot? I look back into the trees, and can just barely glimpse the girl from Nine staring out at me expressionlessly.

Why doesn't she shoot again? I can see the bow in her hands.

My heart pounds wildly, erratically, beating against my ribs as though trying to escape and run from the pain. I want to run away too. It is too painful to stay.

I wanted to win. The odds were swinging into my favor. I wanted so badly to win. I think of the sheep on the farm, and the sun, and the dust. Even the small details that I can recall seem precious. I am frightened of letting the thoughts go, of letting go of anything, as though I can keep myself alive through sheer force of will and not wanting to die.

I stole from the careers, I survived the ankle injury on the first day, all of it. And now I am down. I have to get up! I know I have to get up!

A wild, burning hatred for the girl from Nine fills me. I remember her pushing me down the hill of supplies at the cornucopia. She made me roll my ankle on the first day. She shot me. She won't even make it fast. I push myself up on one arm and begin to crawl toward her, one hand at a time, ignoring how much it hurts.

"Coward!" I scream. "Coward! Come down from that tree. Come down and fight. You're too scared. You little coward! Fight like a human being!"

My voice cracks and I fall forward onto my face, unable to keep moving on my wildly quavering arms. The arrow fletching hits the grounds and drives the point up and in, tearing through me, and scything through my shirt at the back. Darkness covers my eyes. My face tingles. I can still feel the ground, just a little, against my cheek, but I can't get up. It keeps fading away, a little at a time. I grab the grass and hold on tight, refusing to float away, as blood leaks from my side and mouth.

Then I let go.

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)  
Cristina Booker-1 (credited with shooting and killing Ricotta Erripe)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 **Additional note: We're halfway done. Go vote in the poll, if you didn't last chapter or the chapter before!**

 ** _Questions (feel free to make up your own answers to things I didn't ask!):_**

 _ **Favorite character?**_

 _ **Positive character developments you see?**_

 _ **Negative developments?**_

 _ **Pick three characters you like and three you don't and explain why.**_


	43. Storm - The Storm Breaks

**I should note that this is not Day 12, this is evening and onward on Day 11. It's not technically 'Part 2' since the day is over, but it is really 'night' of Day 11 and morning of Day 12. So it doesn't work as either. Let's just call it 'a dark and stormy night'. And there will be more chapters of this dark and stormy night. They will come hard and fast and short. And I'll update more often.**

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

I have settled down for the night, somewhere between sleeping and waking, and when the first growl of thunder reverberates in the air. My eyes snap open, but I don't sit up, still careful of moving my healing arm. Earlier this evening I found out whose cannon fired this afternoon: it was Ricotta, the girl from Ten. She was an interesting tribute. Not particularly skilled, but she seemed to have a survival instinct. I never expected to outlast her.

There are a lot of things I haven't expected, I think, as I lie in the darkness, listening to the distant growls and watching the lightning flickering in the tops of the trees.

I knew I was a survivor. I knew I wasn't going to give up. I knew this would be very, very hard, probably the hardest thing I have ever done. I didn't expect to be shot, what that would feel like. I didn't expect so many days to grind by with such excruciating slowness. The waiting is more grinding than an actual fight.

The thunder moves a little closer, and the trees above sigh and creak as little fitful gusts of wind begin to blow.

Rolling over underneath my poncho, shivering a little as the pocket of air heated by my body escapes, I press a hand to my forehead. It is so dark and difficult to think. I wish that I had found an ally. I feel so alone out here.

There is a patter, like a thousand little feet all running toward me. At first I imagine mutts, before I realize that I have heard that same sound during summer nights when thunderstorms, still smelling of salt and ocean, blow in over Eleven. The rain pattering closer and closer on the dust and the roofs. It is only rain.

The water whirls over in a deluge, pouring down great, fat drops that blow into ever crevice and leave me damp in seconds. I stand up and run, looking for shelter. The water is cold, not like the storms at home. It leaches the heat from my skin and leaves me shivering.

Suddenly the world flares bright, blinding white and the thunder crashes all around me as though trying to tear the very air into shreds. I throw myself to the ground and clap my hands over my ears, then lunge back to my feet, dashing through the woods. I hear crashing in the bushes, and see the dark silhouette of a dear bounding past me in great leaps, her terrified eyes wide and pale in the dark.

The bushes whip my legs, and occasionally I get tangled in the blackberry vines, feeling them tear across my skin and then free before I have a chance to stop. Blood trickles down my leg.

There is another flash of lightning, and again I throw my hands over my ears for the thunderclap. I run through a muddy patch, feeling it suck at my legs and the putrid smell of muck and rot all around me, the thick ooze trickling in over the tops of my boots. The rain has drenched my face, blowing into the hood of my poncho as I try to hold it tight over my head. The water trickles down my neck. I am wetter every moment.

I can only hope that I do not trip. It would be impossible to stop myself from falling with my hands busy pulling my poncho as tightly around me as I can.

Before I know it, I collide hard into another tribute, and fall to the ground. In the next flash of lightning, I see the startled face of the girl from Four, Atalanta a few strides behind. There is no time to think, only to act. I turn and run.

I can hear them recover quickly, crashing through the bushes behind me, shouting out and encouraging one another, swearing and angry when they trip or get swiped by the branches. I give up all thought of staying dry and stick my hands out in front of me like a blind person, focusing every ounce of my being on speed. I remember the thrown knife that I plucked from the water in the bloodbath and my hand goes to my belt, where it still hangs. I will use it if it comes to it.

And then my feet splash into water. In the lurid flickering of the lightning I can see that it stretches in front of me for many feet, the surface lashed and foamy from the wind, torn by the rain, the current swollen and fast. I recognize the creek that I harvested shellfish from, opening out into the sea. It was my friend then. Now, swollen with rain, it is an enemy. I turn like an animal brought to bay, facing the hunters and their dogs, prepared to fight tooth and nail and do as much damage as possible before I am killed. I draw the knife, futile, hopeless, and hold my ground.

The careers burst from the trees. Atalanta stops. "The water is your element, Cyma," she says. "Go."

The four girl runs for me, a knife in either hand, fast but not fast enough to dodge easily. I back into the water, feeling it creep up to the backs of my knees, then my thighs, the current tugging and threatening to pull me over. Cyma wades in after me. I hold my knife hand under the water, hoping she didn't already see it.

"What's the matter?" she asks. "Scared of a little lightning?"

One step closer. I whip the knife up, aiming for her torso. She sees my strike, steps to the side, and lets go of her left hand knife, grabbing my wrist and twisting until my weapon falls and splashes into the stream. She steps back in close and stabs down. I go under, feeling the knife flash across my face and tug over my chest, unbearably cold. The water tugs my body and lifts me away, pulling me free of Cyma's grip as water floods my nose and mouth.

I thrash and scream, pain flashing along my body, clawing for the surface. I come up and see that I am already some fifty feet downstream, moving towards the open water. Then my head goes under again. And up. And waves fill my mouth. And the rain and hail stings and lashes like buckshot.

And my body is pushed hard against something solid. I hook my arms over the rough bark of the log and hang on for dear life, soaked, bleeding, the hail lashing my face. In the flash of the lightning, I can see the water all around me. I put my face against the bark, dig my fingernails into the wood, and resolve to hold on until I die.

* * *

 **12th Place-Ricotta Erripe-shot by Cristina Booker-Ricotta was a fun one to have a fun one to write. She came to me easily. She was one of those fairly average tributes with a personality and character big enough to carry them. She also had one of the most complete, detailed forms I received, making her easy to write and flesh out, and supplying me with no end to ideas. She was realistic all over, and I considered her strongly for my victor, but something was missing. Besides, she didn't quite fit into the rest of this story arc. Thanks to 2xthespeedoflife for Ricotta. I loved writing her, and am quite glad I kept her as long as I did.**

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)  
Cristina Booker-1 (credited with shooting and killing Ricotta Erripe)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 **Additional note: It started snowing outside. I'm off to play. Be prepared for more** **chapters soon-ish.**

 ** _Questions (feel free to make up your own answers to things I didn't ask!):_**

 ** _I don't have any. This is a short chapter. And one of more to come on the same subject and roughly the same time. What do you think?_**


	44. Storm - Skyfall

**. . .**

* * *

 **Emmett McLean, 16**

 **District 7 Female**

* * *

As I prepare for sleep, the first warning I have of the storm is the beginning of the wind, blowing in unsteady puffs, bigger each time. Then the grumbles in the distance. Then the flashes, silhouetting the mainland.

Soon the lightning is very close, flickering and flashing in great streaks. The first few worms of panic begin to squirm uncomfortably in my chest.

Should I climb down from my tree? It has been my place of safety for all but my first few nights in the arena. I have been able to rest, really rest, secure in the knowledge that I am over fifty feet above the ground, all earthward signs of my presence erased but for my fire, carefully banked and near-smothers every night.

However, the tree could quickly go from refuge to a deathtrap should the lightning stray too near. I console myself with the knowledge that there _are_ taller trees around. Plus, the trunk continues a good forty feet above my head. The lightning wouldn't hit _me,_ even if the tree _was_ struck.

Rain begins to patter on the leaves, rusher closer every second. I groan and roll onto my side, minimizing the upward-facing surface area of my body, and settle in for a damp night.

I am no stranger to rain. It is a constant in District 7. We work in the rain, eat in the rain, play in the rain. If we put down what we were doing every time the sky dropped a little water, nothing would ever get finished. I remember walking to the Reaping, the height of summer, really, and smelling the cobbles and asphalt as the rain dampened them. A wave of homesickness washes over me.

Perhaps I am used to it, but I am not fond of the wet. It frizzes my hair and soaks my clothes while leaching the moisture from my lips and fingertips and skin. I rub a hand over my cracked lips with a wry smile, wishing for a little oil or bacon fat to protect them. I prepare for a miserable night as the drops begin to soak through my shirt and pants, and the patter intensifies to an honest downpour.

The poncho I was issued at the beginning of the Games is what I have used as my hammock, and now I must deal with that decision. There isn't enough of it to cover both sides of me. I pull a little corner of it over myself, covering as much as I can, tensing as the hammock swings with my movement. I curl inward, shivering miserably, my stomach lurching with the swaying branches, hands clamped over my ears to block out the cracks of the thunder.

What with the wind and the noise, it is a wonder I get to sleep at all . . .

But when I wake up I am falling, slipping from the poncho, the branch it was attached to shattered and swinging beside me. In the flare of the lightning, I see the rope I used to tie myself in and grab wildly for it, but my momentum is too great. It tears burning across my palms and ends, and I spin downward, lashed by the branches, too terrified and too fast for a scream.

It is like falling through a sea of whips, every second brings a dozen new cuts, the trunk rushes past, a large branch looms, and with a horrible smack and a flash of stars the world cuts off.

* * *

 **Cristina Booker, 18**

 **District 9 Female**

* * *

For the first time in several years, I feel something, almost a sound, in my ears. But it is not a true sound. It is only the air, split and vibrating with the sheer volume of sound from the thunder.

Drenched, shivering in my poncho, I huddle beneath my tree, praying that the lashing branches do not pull it over on top of me. A branch tears free, and I dive out of the way just in time. I can stay here no longer. I run out into the lashing rain and hail, and in the flashes of lightning can see the trees swaying like a wild ocean around the edges of the grass.

I throw myself down among the wet stems, battered and knocked down with the sheer force and volume of the rain. There is a thicker spray for several inches above the ground, where the drops shatter on the grass and bounce back upward.

I bury my face in my arms and press myself into the wet and stems and mud, praying I am flat enough. Better to be squished by a tree or struck by lightning? I pray that I do not have to ever decide which feels worse, but for now, they are my options, and the images are enough to frighten me out of my wits.

* * *

 **Eleanor Bradford, 17**

 **District 2 Female**

* * *

Lash, crack, bend, swirl, strike, cut.

The bushes batter my face and hands as I try to stagger away from the relentless rain, half-drowned, not knowing where in the woods I am. My stomach churns, and I fall to my knees, stagger up again, lurch onward.

All around me the forest is a cacophony of creaks and groans, the thunder an ear-splitting sound over it all. I am overwhelmed, beaten down, as the world falls to smithereens around me. There is a great crack, and a massive limb falls just behind me, the smaller branches lash me and throw me to the ground.

I lurch back to my feet and stagger on.

* * *

 **Pixie Castellano, 15**

 **District 8 Female**

* * *

The thunder and the cracks of the trees make it impossible to sleep. I huddle under my poncho, the rain beating the ivy leaves above my hiding place. I suck at the marrow of one of a bone, all that is left of the young deer I killed several days ago, when the careers almost found me.

It is something to do, something to keep my mouth busy, something to keep me from driving myself frantic with the emptiness and the horrible, earth-shaking sound. It is enough to drive anyone mad.

Underneath me, rivulets of muddy water flow down the steep slope, soaking my rear and forcing me to hold myself in a painful squatting position or be soaked. Gritty, sandy water covers my hands, my hair is plastered to my face.

Suddenly the ground heaves, shifts. I hurl myself head-first through the curtain of ivy, scrambling across the ground. Above me, the trees toss and swirl, and then as one, with horrid, splintering crashes and death-groans, they tumble and the hillside slides away. I try to hold on, but there is nothing to grab.

I am rushed down the hill, toward the angry, seething water at the beach, tumbled, torn by the thorny vines, pummeled and hit and whacked a dozen different ways. My head whirls, struck by rocks and sticks, I feel as though I will burst, and I want only to find something solid.

With a great, slithering splash the debris hits the water. I fall with it, over backward, land on the mud already below me, lurch to my feet, try to run.

Above me, as though in slow motion, I can see the hill tumbling down on top of me, before a great log strikes my chest, pushes me down, drives the breath from my lungs. I feel my ribs crack and settle, and tons of mud crashes down over my legs. The debris under me settles, and my head goes under the hungry waves, mouth filling with saltwater. I grab at the wood pining me down, tearing thrashing.

I curl myself painfully against it and am just able to get my head above the water. I see the sky above me, am unable to turn my head without my face going under again. I choke, vomiting seawater, the wracking coughs expelling the air from my chest so that I have to suck painfully and deeply to breathe. The rain above falls directly in my eyes, but I cannot shift to get away. An especially big wave breaks over my face and I shut my eyes and mouth just in time.

Soaked, barley above the water, my legs tingling with the weight of the mud and rocks, I wait for the tide to come in and finish the job.

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)  
Cristina Booker-1 (credited with shooting and killing Ricotta Erripe)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 _ **Questions: (feel free to add your own thoughts)**_

 _ **Storm?**_

 ** _Who's dead?_**

 ** _What do you think?_**

 ** _WHAT DO I ASK PEOPLE?! THIS IS CRAZY! I CAN'T! IT'S A STORM! UNPREDICTABLE BY DEFINITION! MAKE UP YOUR OWN QUESTIONS!_**

 ** _And remember: death recap doesn't happen until the evening of Day 12. heh-heh._**


	45. Storm - When It Crumbles

**I've been waiting to write this for ages. Same with the next few chapters.**

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

Zita and I huddle, shivering, all worries for propriety forgotten as we try not to get soaked. The thunder crashes around us and the sea has been churned into a raging monster, gnawing and growling and crawling up the beach. The pouring rain saturates our wood shelter, dripping around the edges of the tent fabric and onto our heads. Our ponchos are wrapped tight, double layered around the both of us.

There is a rumbling, slithering crash up the hill from us, and an outburst of cracking and splintering. In the flickers of lightning, I see that much of the hill has slid into the sea. The trees thrash and moan above us. I worry that the hill will slide onto our heads and crush us. But where else can we go? If we dare enter the forest, we chalk surely be crushed. Another huge wave hits the sand, tearing away a chunk of beach and sweeping one of the huge logs of driftwood into the water. I come to a decision. We can stay no longer.

"Zita," I say. She doesn't answer. I shake her shoulder gently and she startles awake. I find it hard to believe she managed to doze off, but the arena has worn on us. I know that I am very tired.

"We need to move out of here. Now. This place isn't safe."

She looks out of the shelter, and sees the tossing trees. "Is it really safer to move?" she asks. "Couldn't we be crushed?"

"I'd thought of it," I answer a little shortly, not wanting to admit that I've thought of that possibility myself and that it terrifies me out of my wits. "But I don't see that we have an alternative. The land is sliding down onto the beach. We'll try to find a place without to many trees and ride out the storm. Gather up our cans and matches and things."

"Okay," she says.

My stomach twists. She listened to my explanation like actually had some authority or deeper knowledge to give it. I haven't the slightest idea, when it comes down to it. We _could_ be crushed by a tree, both of us, before we go three feet. And it would be _my_ fault.

I shove down my doubts, knowing that now is the time to put a bold face on it and be a leader. Zita is looking to me to get us through this storm, and I sure as heck mean to do it. Forget the trees. Forget the wind. Just make up your mind and go. That's what I need to focus on right now.

Zita leaves the shelter and I follow her out, helping her pull down the tent cover we had over the poles. Then we pile our cans and makeshift cooking implements, piling them haphazardly onto the tarpaulin. I gather it up into a bundle and tie the corners, slinging it over my shoulder like a sack. Then I gather my poncho tightly around me, flash Zita an encouraging smile when I see her frightened face underneath bedraggled black curls, bundled tight under her hood, and together we plunge out into the raging wind.

The rain hits like a physical blow, the wind tears the poncho from my hands and sends it flapping wildly around my legs, threatening to pull me down. "Come on!" I shout over the wind, grabbing Zita's hand and practically dragging her down the beach.

We stagger into the forest, where the wind is lessened a little by the shelter of the trees, but the creaks and groans and splinters and thrashes are completely unnerving, as though at any minute the sky will fall on our heads. Out in the darkness, I can hear the slither and crash as the shores slide into the sea. The waves are gnawing the island away. I have seen this phenomenon before, as the noose of the Games tightens. The arena is too big, and we are not finding each other. So the gamemakers are making it smaller. We can either return to the main island and face the remaining careers, or be crushed and drowned at our leisure.

I don't tell Zita of my thoughts, but I make up my mind, and lead her on a steady course toward the place where the sandbar connects the islands at low tide. We will go to the other island. It is too soon yet to decide that we have no chance of at least one of us leaving alive.

In the distance, through the thrashing trees, I can see the waves thrashing in the shaky moonlight that filters through the thick clouds, and the brighter flares of the lightning.

"Come on!" I yell to Zita. "Let's get out of the woods!"

We take off at a shambling run, tripping over branches and bushes, lashed by the never-ending rain that blows in solid sheets even beneath the trees.

At last, the gravel crunches under our feet as we race out from under the dark trees and onto the beach. I recoil in despair. The waves are lashed to at least three feet tall, the water depth heaving and churning, the sandbar covered, the other island unreachable. It is a scant twenty yards away, but the water is unbridgeable. I can't think of any way to get across. Are the gamemakers determined to kill us? I won't play along. There has to be a way.

I squint out at the water, and in one of the flashes I see a large log, driftwood, bobbing near the tideline. "Stay here," I tell Zita, and dash forward into the waves.

The freezing shock is instantaneous, and the waves snatch at me and nearly batter me off my feet. I wade back out and tear off my poncho, to reduce the drag of my body in the waves. Then I go back in. The water reaches my chest, cold and trying to claw out my life. It is hard to draw breath with the terror and the force of the wild water. One more step. The ground vanishes from under my feet. I snatch wildly for the log, and get a hand down.

Sobbing with relief, I wrap my hands tight around the wet bark and kick clumsily, pushing it slowly in toward the shore. In another moment I can touch the ground. I pull it forward, calling out to Zita to help me she runs forward willingly, eyes alight, face slick with rain, lending her strength with a will. Within moments, we have the log out of the water, resting on the beach, scooting gently forward and backward with the waves.

I give and exultant shout, and Zita is shouting too, and we grab hands and dance wildly around for a few seconds, elated and glowing.

Suddenly, Zita stops, still holding my hands, and turns back to the log. Following her gaze, I gasp. Tangled among the rootball at the edge of the trunk, wrapped and trapped by their poncho, is the still form of another tribute, the first Zita and I have seen since the horrible day when our alliances shattered.

We walk forward, wondering who it is. Zita steps bravely forward and pulls the poncho away, revealing tangled black curls. She puts her hand over her mouth and recoils.

Running up behind her, I look down and see what has her uncomfortable. It is the young girl from Eleven, the skin on her face split open from forehead to neck, eyes half-closed and staring. I wonder if she is dead and we just missed the cannon in the thunder and wind. The rain beats down on her still face, turning pink with tendrils of blood that are washed away in seconds, only to bloom again from that terrible gash.

Reaching down, gently, I pick her up and carry her back to the treeline, telling Zita quietly to stay and make sure the log doesn't float off. Deep down, though, I'm not sure we'll be using it. I can't leave this girl, not if she's alive and there's anything we can do to help.

I lay her down underneath the thick bushes. Bending down, I press to fingers gently against the side of her neck, wet with blood. Underneath the skin, I can feel the faint, stubborn pulse of her blood. She is alive.

I run lightly back to where I dropped our supplies. There isn't much there. No first-aid kit, no bandages, nothing. I think longingly of the backpacks, stuffed with supplies, that Hunter and I had from the cornucopia. Rage and sadness swirl inside me. When the careers killed him, we lost all that. It must have been a career who attacked this girl, too. I wonder how they justify these actions to themselves.

Swiftly, I tear a few strips of fabric from the edge of the tent, and jog back to the girl. She is still limp and cold. I ease the poncho off and see that her shirt is slashed, the gash continuing down along her collarbone. Raising her head on my knee, trying not to shudder as one hand flops against me, I wrap the two strips of fabric as tightly as I can around her chest, then wind the other around the gash in her face, leaving only her eyes, nostrils, and mouth uncovered.

As I know them tight, she stirs and whimpers. I feel her body jerk as she sits suddenly up, head slamming against my chin before I have a chance to dodge away. Then she runs forward, stumbles once, and I dash up behind her and catch her by the wrist. "It's alright!" I call. She whirls to face me, then doubles over in pain and sinks down, eyes hopeless, all the fire going out of her.

I release her wrist, trying to earn her trust. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She pulls her arms into herself, looking down at the ground. "Really." I say. Then: "Can you move okay? The whole island is crumbling. We need to get back to the big one."

Her eyes become observant again. "There are two islands? I didn't know that. How are you planning on getting back? You don't have a boat, do you?"

I answer each question in turn, thinking of how much she reminds me of myself or of my friends a few years ago. Always asking questions until adults would want to yell: one at a time please! "Yes, there are two islands. We're going to get back by floating on the log where we found you. And we'll be doing that because we decidedly do _not_ have a boat. Now a question for you: how did you end up floating on a log?"

Her face goes blank and she answers mechanically. "The girl from Four caught up to me. I got out as fast as I could, but I ended up in the water. I didn't want to die, so . . . " She shrugs.

I nod, not making her elaborate. It must have been terrifying, and she is surely in a lot of pain. Down the beach, another great chunk of land breaks off and tumbles into the sea. The girl's eyes flicker toward it, then return fearfully to my face, searching it, then considering again the crumbling island.

"To answer _your_ question, yes, I can travel." Her expression dares me to challenge her ability. I know that what she just said must take incredible courage, and that in truth she is in no condition to be moving on. But the Games test us to the limits, to the point where we cannot go on and yet we do. I know it well. And I will not challenge her willingness to press on. If her will tells her she can do it, I have no doubt that she won't slow us down. I nod, and lead the way to the log.

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

Little sparks of pain dance up and down my face and chest at each step, and my body shakes with the piercing cold and the terror. I have only just been pulled from that trap of death, and now I must return to the sea. I can swim a little, but not in these waves. Not in this cold. It is a long, long way from warm District 11, and stolen swims with friends in the canals.

The homesickness that has been washing over me for days grows stronger. I am so tired. So beaten. I want it to be over, but I want it to be over with me going home. And the only way for that to happen is to press on.

I stand beside the log as my new allies drag their supplies to the waters edge, lashing them to the log with more strips from the tent they used to bandage me. The log heaves up and down in the waves. I don't want to go back into the water. It is a dangerous beast that will kill me if I let it.

These two, they do not seem to realize the danger. The girl is smiling, the boy too, though there is a tiredness deep in his eyes. They seem as though the Games do not matter to them. I envy their optimism.

Somewhere within me I hate their joy. It makes me feel smaller; more alone. I know it is petty, selfish, that the joy of another in no way takes anything from me. And yet their calm feels like an insult, their freedom like a taunt that shows me how deep I am truly trapped in this cage.

I climb aboard behind them, feeling the log as it continues to sway dangerously. My hands spasm, gripping tighter with each roll of the log. It is unsteady, ready to capsize at any moment.

The boy holds up a flat piece of driftwood and the girl laughs, high and clear above the wind. The line of pain across my face throbs, stinging with the salt. I look away from them as they push the log away from the shore, shutting my eyes and holding on tight. The ground vanishes as we shove off. The log rolls; I tighten my grip, feeling as though I am riding a very fat pony determined to throw me off.

The waves drag at the edge of my poncho, and I almost wish I left it on the beach instead of putting it back on. It was already wet through and of little use to me. Again I know that I am being foolish, shortsighted, but I cannot muster the will to care. Only to go on, breathing, holding on, as the log pitches beneath me and the salt spray stings my battered, wounded body. My injured arm, healing though it was, has developed a deep, penetrating ache brought on by the cold, and I cannot feel my fingers.

My eyelids flare red, than go black again, and I hear the roll of thunder high above a few moments later. The color continues to flicker as the lightning brightens the night and then leaves it again. I do not know what is more frightening: the nakedness of the light, like being caught beside a flare, or the horrible, lonely darkness.

The waves lap wetly against my legs, the log heaving and surging perilously. Then all at once, it rolls and I spill into the sea.

I open my eyes, stroke hard against the water and drag myself to the surface, gasping like a fish, and fling myself toward the log, now lying bottom up, the supplies trailing in the water. The boy's red hair emerges a yard away, and he strokes clumsily back to the log, eyes wide with fear. He grips on beside me, shaking and shivering like a wet rat.

I hear a scream.

"Zita!" he shouts back, suddenly terrified again. I see that the girl is not with us. "Zita!"

The lightning tears the sky. I see her about ten feet away, thrashing at the water, head tilted back, mouth open, eyes wide and black in the terrified white of her face. Before the flare ends, I see her slip under.

"No!"

The boy pushes off from the log, kicking clumsily toward the spot where her head disappeared. "Zita! Zi - " his cry cuts off as he goes under, then comes back up, paddling, thrashing, going under again. The fool! I think. The fool! He cannot swim. The _fool!_

Her head comes up, goes down, then his. He kicks forward, stays above water a few seconds, reaches her. Terrified, she wraps her arms around his neck and they both go under. Fools.

And yet I feel my right arm release the log, pull off my poncho, and then I let go and slip into the water, swimming a little clumsily but steadily out. Now who is the fool, Capri Kane? I ask myself. And the answer comes back: you. But not for going. For waiting so long to help the ones who saved you.

I reach the place. _Come up,_ I beg. _Come up._

The waves roll on unforgivingly. I can't see more than a few feet. One slaps me in the face. I curse, then dive under, pulling myself down.

The cold squeezes my chest, making it hard to find the will to paddle. But my hand comes against something soft and wriggling, and I grab hold and pull up, finding myself at the top of the water, holding the arm of the boy, Zita wrapped tightly around his neck, and he chokes and gurgles.

I shove at her, but she won't budge, and he shouts at me as best he can. We will both drown, the log will be too far away.

"Zita!" I shout, using the deepest, nastiest voice I can muster. "Grab the _blasted_ poncho!"

Galvanized into action, she releases the boy's neck and grabs on. The boy coughs, treading water weakly, on the surface one moment and below it the next.

"You too," I say. "Now kick like your life depends on it!"

I turn, and with grim determination, swim in the direction of the trees of the other island. We were nearly there when the log flipped, no more than twenty feet. The log is gone. There is no way we can reach it again by now. Our only hope is the beach.

Each moment is an hour. My leg seizes up, cramps. I can barely kick. I bare my teeth, tasting the sharp tang of the saltwater, and press on. The bandage around my head slips, covering one eye. The other stings as salt and blood runs into it. I can barely see the shore. I point my head, shut my eyes, put my face in the water, and keep pulling.

Gravel grates under my feet, buoying up my sodden boots. I open my eyes, raise my head, and, gasping, collapse on the soaked sand. The boy falls beside me, choking and retching. Zita just drops to her knees, fixing the ground with a thousand-yard stare.

"You're Capri, right?" the boy gasps as soon as he can talk.

I nod, refusing to look at him, cradling my numb arm and feeling hot blood run down my face. I hear him shift next to me, and raise my eyes. Hand extended, face in a sober expression for once, he looks up at me. I take the offered hand and he shakes it.

"Byron Calvert. Thanks."

* * *

 **Kills list:**

 **Atalanta Bliss-2 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye and Enzo Garrix)  
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)  
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)  
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)  
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)  
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)  
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)  
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)  
Alabaster Parker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)  
Cristina Booker-1 (credited with shooting and killing Ricotta Erripe)**

 **Natural Causes or Consequences - 1 (Mercury Medall)**

* * *

 **Alliances:**

 **(Basking) Sharks - Zita Moreno, Byron Calvert, Capri Kane  
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore  
**

* * *

 ** _What do you think of the expanded alliance?_**

 ** _How is this storm going to end?_**

 ** _Who will still be alive?_**

 ** _Who will die and how?_**

 ** _Who do you_ want _to die and how?_**

 ** _Make up your own question (or more than one) and answer it._**

 ** _Oh, and I didn't proof read this. Were there any typos? Sentences that didn't make sense?_**


	46. Storm - Set Fire to the Rain

**Hello all! I'm back, hopefully with a bang! For any of you who I forgot to tell, I gave up fanfiction for Lent. So that explains my 40+ day absence. I got two and a half chapters written in a notebook though, so here's the first one. It's kind of a doozy, so if you've forgotten where tributes are located and such you may want to go back to the beginning of the storm and skim a little to refresh your memory. This chapter moves fast, and doesn't have a lot of recapping of past events.**

 **I didn't ask questions at the end, so you can say whatever you want. I should begin weekly updates from now on, and that shouldn't be too hard to keep to next week and the one after at least, as I have two chapters that only need a little editing.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Capri Kane, 14**

 **District 11 Female**

* * *

Soaked and more than a little wobbly, we start off into the woods. After Zita and Byron and I had calmed down some from our brush with death, I told them about how the career girls have left the cornucopia, and the fight I had with the girl from Four. My face is numb where Cyma's knife tore across it, and the tight strips of bandage covering the slash seem to squeeze away the pain I ought to feel.

With the careers gone from the cornucopia, and likely holed up for the night, trying to stay dry during this raging storm, we all agreed that this was our best chance to go and get supplies. We are already soaked, so what is there to lose?

The wind is still tossing the treetops in a mad tempest, though the rain and thunder have abated somewhat.

I feel proud, leading an alliance of tributes older than me. I saved their lives out on the log in the water, and after the days of near-boredom where I sat and waited for someone to come kill me, this proof of my ability is energizing.

My chances suddenly seem so much better. To the audience. To the gamemakers. And to my own self.

Byron is behind me, head down, hands in pockets, seemingly lost in thought or exhaustion and just putting one foot in front of the other. His face is unreadable, and I wonder what he is thinking about. They are a strange pair, he and Zita. I look past him, to see if Zita is falling behind. It wouldn't surprise me. How she has made it this far is a miracle.

Behind Byron is darkness and empty woods.

I hold up my hand, signaling for a halt. With his head tucked down, Byron doesn't see it until he's almost on top of me.

"Wait a moment," I say, trying to conceal the annoyance I feel toward the girl holding us back. "We need to let Zita catch up."

The last word is hardly out of my mouth when an extra-strong gust of wind sends us staggering. Somewhere back along the way we came, there is an earsplitting crack and a long groan. Looking upward, I see the huge, gaunt form of a dead tree plunge down.

Byron too startles at the noise and looks upward. Then he stares at me, shaken by the near miss. Suddenly, his eyes go wide.

"Zi—" he starts, before a cannon blasts the rest of the name away.

A sobbing noise tears from deep in his throat, and he dashes pell-mell down the trail, scrambling past the root ball of the fallen tree. I follow.

And give an exclamation of disgust.

Her lower torso crushed under the heavy trunk, eyes bulging, a runnel of blood trailing from her mouth and along her chin, lies the girl from District 2.

Zita sprawls a few feet away, muddy and disheveled from diving out of the way. But alive.

Byron runs to her and offers her a hand. She stands shakily, but doesn't seem to see him. The moment he stops steadying her, she flops down again on her hands and knees and retches.

Disgusted, I grudgingly help Byron lift her and half-lead, half-carry her onward. As soon as we are out of sight of the crushed corpse behind us she revives a little and begins to walk on her own power. After proceeding for several minutes in silence, Byron asks her what happened.

"I fell behind, and then that girl came staggering out from behind a tree. I dove down in the ferns to hide. I tried to call out to you, really I did, but my throat just seemed to close up and I—"

Seeing that she is close to tears, Byron interrupts. "That's alright. We never would have heard you anyway in this wind."

I realize Zita wasn't upset by remembering the fear, but rather at the thought that she might not have been able to warn us about the approaching career. She's changed.

She gulps and goes on: "Eleanor didn't seem to realize where she was or what was happening, nor did she see me. Then the tree started to fall. She never heard or saw it. I watched it tumble down and crush her while she just walked straight ahead like nothing was happening. I sort of pushed myself up in the ferns and looked at her. Blood was running from her mouth and nose, and one big drop trailed out of her eye, like a tear. After that I couldn't think. It was so horrid, Byron. She never even saw the tree. Any of it. I don't think she even knew she was dead."

"You don't have to talk about it," Byron says, a little too quickly. He looks green. I try not to think about it.

Behind me, the two of them start some other conversation. I walk faster, sick of the cold and rain, and looking forward to the wealth of supplies waiting at the cornucopia. Cyma and Atalanta were wearing jackets. Maybe there'll be more, and in my size.

The dark forest and wind-tossed bushes slip by, one step at a time. Then my foot splashes down into the water of the soggy, overflowing pond. Zita and Byron jog up behind me.

"Ready for a swim?" I ask sarcastically, gesturing to the dark, rain-lashed water.

"Why not?" Byron responds, the wry look on his face belying his game tone.

All three of us wade into the water. I shudder, remembering the mad scramble of the bloodbath and the still, floating bodies staining this same muddy pond red. I wade to the cornucopia as quickly as I can, and am wringing the water distastefully from my clothes when Byron climbs out beside me, peering into the dark interior of the golden horn.

He steps inside. Then: "There's nothing here!"

Zita and I dash past him. He's right. The place is completely gutted. Deserted.

"What on earth?!" Byron exclaims. He turns to me, and rage flickers across his face. "What are you playing at?!"

"Me?" I shout, my voice squeaking in spite of myself. "Nothing! I wanted supplies as much as you!"

"Yeah, I'll bet you did. So, when are the careers supposed to come and thank you for the easy meat?" He takes a menacing step toward me.

"Byron, don't!" Zita shouts, sounding uncertain.

"You keep out of this," he orders firmly.

I begin to back away, slowly. Then my foot slips on the muddy, rain-slick edge and I tumble down. I am startled and disoriented, turned around in the dark water. I think I'm kicking upward, but after three strokes I hit bottom, and my forearm strikes something plastic and square. Reaching down, I grab hold of it and tug upward. Pushing off the bottom, I break the surface and hook my arm over the ledge by the cornucopia before the heavy box can drag me down.

"They dumped them in the pond!" I shout. Triumphant, I fling back the lid of the box. There are spiked throwing stars, daggers, and machetes. Surplus weaponry the careers didn't need.

Byron ducks past me and grabs a long, coiled object from the bin. A grin cracks his face, all anger forgotten. He uncoils the rope — a bullwhip, I realize — and snaps it across the pond. With an exultant shout, he does it again.

"Come on, Zita!" I yell. "Let's see if there are more!" I grab her hand and practically drag her into the water.

We dredge up several more bins, but then they come to an end. There is nothing like the volume of supplies that filled the cornucopia. Not even close. And it's all stuff like weapons, tents, and clothes — I have my jacket! But no food.

"They must have moved," I say, turning to Byron where he sits running the whip through his hands. Zita crouches beside him, examining the gleaming points of a throwing star curiously.

"Maybe," he says. "That way they could hide their supplies and leave them unguarded. They'd be free to — wait a moment."

He frowns, stands, and walks forward next to me. I hear it too as I turn. A faint splash, out of rhythm with the natural hissing of the rain being driven into the water. We both peer into the darkness, Zita turning her head and following our gaze.

There is a flicker of movement, and suddenly I recognize the noise.

I open my mouth to signal the danger, but instead of a warning a scream escapes my lips as a short, silver javelin strikes my midsection and drives me to the ground.

* * *

 **Zita Moreno, 15**

 **District 5 Female**

* * *

I echo Capri's scream as she tumbles backward. Grabbing her shoulders, I get hold of her and drag her whimpering body into the shadowed mouth of the cornucopia.

Her eyes are wide and staring, and her mouth moves noiselessly. The rest of her face is invisible under the heavy bandaging. A thin stream of blood trickles from the corner of her mouth.

I pull her clutching hands away from the spear shaft and gasp. The broad, heavy head has pulled partially out, the barbs ruining her flesh and the fabric of her jacket — the new one we just found, that she was so excited to finally have. There is blood everywhere. I remember when red was my favorite color. Not any more. For a moment, I freeze, unable to think or look away from the terrifying wound. There is nowhere to hide, the way I would flee the room when my mother discussed some injury seen in District 5's makeshift hospital.

There is nowhere to run. The careers are coming for us.

A shadowy figure falls past me from the top of the horn and hits the ground with a thud, landing cat-like between me and Byron. I open my mouth to scream a warning, but my throat makes no sound. I must manage a small squeak, because the figure turns a split-second later and I recognize Daniel Sparks.

A half-dozen emotions awaken within me. Anger. Surprise. Betrayal. Happiness.

In my arms, Capri gives a convulsive twitch.

One of the career girls, clearly visible in their canoe by the light of a now-uncovered flashlight, calls out: "You're outmatched. Start running, and maybe one of you will get away. After all, I can't be everywhere at once. Run."

Right on cue, the lightning starts again, accentuating her last word. A peal of thunder follows, but it isn't quite loud enough to drown out Byron's response. "We're allies. We stick together."

"Whatever," the girls shrugs. "It's your funeral, not mine."

Capri's body stiffens again, arching and spasming. I look down. Her eyes are wide open, staring into and through mine. She opens her mouth urgently. A bubble of blood works its way out between her lips and bursts with a gurgle. A quiver starts in her legs, running all up her body before the shaking stops and she goes limp. Shaking, I pass my hand over her staring eyes and close them. A cannon fires a moment later.

I scuttle away from the body and cower in the shadow, a silent witness, rigid with terror. The world seems to be racing by, too fast for my thoughts to catch up.

"One down," Atalanta calls. "Who's next? Shall we play a game?"

She raises another spear.

Danny moves up behind Byron and touches his shoulder. Byron startles and Atalanta casts her spear. Distracted, he doesn't see it coming, but Danny pushes him to the ground and the projectile sails over them and lands with a harmless clatter.

"Listen," I hear Danny whisper seriously. "I—"

"What are you doing here?" Byron interrupts, sounding bewildered and suspicious of the sudden appearance of the other boy.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you!" Danny hisses. "Listen, we haven't got much time."

"I know, talk fast," Byron interrupts again.

Danny rolls his eyes in frustration. "Quit interrupting." He pulls Byron into the horn where the careers can't see them. I press myself up against the wall and wait. Danny sets down the bundle he was carrying and unwraps it. In the dim light of the careers flashlight, I see the glint of metal.

"This," he says, pointing to the metal cylinder. "Is our only way out. We break cover, fake an attack, I set this, and then we retreat back to the cornucopia. The career girls step on shore, and!" He jerks his hands apart, miming an explosion.

"It's a bomb?" Byron asks, disbelievingly. "How on earth would you make that?"

"Listen, it doesn't matter. The short story is that I know wires, and with the help of the training center, it wasn't a big leap. You've got to trust me."

"Why should I do that."

"You know why."

In the dark, I think Byron glances my direction, but I'm not sure. What I do know, is that the next moment, he nods his assent.

There is a scraping noise on the water. I see the careers bringing the canoe against the ledge. This time, I find my voice. "Watch out!"

The boys whirl around and run out onto the ledge. Byron brings his whip up and lashes out at the canoe. Cyma hastily shoves it off again, paddling out of range. The boat rocks, and Atalanta drops the flashlight. It hits the water and winks out. In the glare of the lightning, I can see Danny crouching on the edge, setting his bomb. Cyma stands and makes a knife cast at him, but it misses.

Byron keeps lashing out in their direction, and they maintain a wary distance. Still standing just inside the cornucopia, I rise slowly to my feet, trying not to look at Capri's dead body lying scarcely a yard away.

With the career girls backed off, Byron bends and whispers to Dan. They step away from the bomb.

In the boat there is a movement, and the cornucopia floods with light. We are idiots. Of course they had more than one! The boys turn and dash for the cornucopia, but Byron's whip uncoils in his haste and tangles around his ankles. He falls sprawling.

My legs move of their own volition. I run past Danny and out into the light, bending next to Byron and pulling him to his feet with a strength I never knew I had.

His eyes widen as he sees me. "Zita!" he cries. "No! Go!"

But it's too late. Over his shoulder, I see the knife leave Cyma's hand. Looking at me, he doesn't see it coming. His eyes are still locked on mine when I step around him and meet the blade, falling against him as his face crumples.

* * *

 **Byron Calvert, 17**

 **District 10 Male**

* * *

"Zita!" I cry. "No! Go!"

Now two of us are in danger. The idiot! The emotional, _brave_ little idiot!

Her dark eyes are wild as she hauls me to my feet and shoves me toward the cornucopia. She stares past me, and they suddenly flicker. Shock. Fear. Resolve. Then nothing. She steps quickly around me, and just as quickly falls back against me with an ugly, wet thud, eyes going blank.

I fall apart. With a shriek of fury, I lower her to the ground, and realize with a blare of panic that she is still alive. Just above her belt stands the wicked silver hilt of Cyma's knife. Above it, her chest rises and falls rapidly. Eyes dilated with fear, she clutches my arm tightly.

"Danny!" I'm screaming, but I barely recognize my own voice. "Danny!"

I bend over Zita, lift her, hold her, shield her, all thoughts of the careers forgotten.

"Danny!"

He is beside me, face twisted with shock and horror. This is all wrong. We were here to save _her._

"Take her!" I scream. "Run!"

"You go," he says calmly. "I'll hold the careers. I owe it to her. I left her. Before."

"I know," I say. "Stay with her now. Take her and run." My voice cracks. "I'm going to kill them."

"Don't," Zita whispers. "Don't."

"I'm going to hold them off," I say more gently, a deadly calm settling in the pit of my stomach at what I am about to do. "Go with Danny."

I want to add _"You'll be okay,"_ but it is a lie. We'll see each other again when we shine in the sky tomorrow night. I take her hand, the one clutching my arm, and press it in both of mine. "Smile," I say.

The corner of her mouth twitches upward.

"Thank you," I whisper, releasing her hand and laying it across her chest. She shudders and closes her eyes.

I pick up my whip from the ground and turn to face the careers, who are once again trying to land. The lash catches Atalanta across the face and she falls backward with a sharp cry. Cyma backs water hurriedly.

Turning, I see Danny standing irresolute. "Take her, now," I order him.

He looks at me for one long moment, then kneels down and lifts Zita so she is resting against him. Raising her right arm, he loops it tight behind his neck and staggers to his feet with a lurch. She hangs limply across his shoulders like an exhausted lamb, her black hair obscuring her face.

Danny meets my eyes again and nods, once. Then I square my shoulders and rotate back to face the careers. I hear the splash behind me as Danny enters the water.

"Come and get me!" I shout, trying to distract the girls' attention. It works. Cyma stands up in the bow of the canoe, livid. Drawing a long fighting knife, she leaps into the water. At the same time, Atalanta paddles the canoe hard toward me.

I crack the whip at her once before the Four girl lunges from the water and charges. I retreat toward the mouth of the cornucopia, and have to bite back a dirty word as both girls leap past the bomb without triggering it. They split up, Cyma drawing a second knife, this one balanced for throwing, from her belt. I flick the whip up and over, the end coiling around her wrist. She yelps at the impact and drops the knife, but she's smiling.

Faster than I can step back and pull her forward, she grabs the whip with her other hand and drags hard on the line. I try to throw my weight back and counter it, but Cyma is at least my height and whipcord strong. My legs, tired from the days of bad food and long walks, can't find footing in the muddy ground. I am jerked onto my knees and dragged forward, reeled in like a fish. I let go of the whip, but the next moment something slams in between my shoulder blades, knocking me onto my face.

I raise my head from the ground, spitting mud, and my back spasms with pain. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Atalanta run up behind me and stop.

There is a sharp, tearing sensation and hot stickiness covers my back. Atalanta steps backward, shaking blood and bits of flesh from the barbed head of her spear.

My strength is failing, but Zita and Danny need more time.

Painfully, I roll back onto my hands and knees and push myself into a squatting position. Raising my head, I do my best to appear defiant. "Is that all you've got?" I gasp, swaying a little.

"Give it up, hero," Atalanta says sarcastically. "How much time do you think you have left?"

She's right. I am dizzy and sick, and my breath comes in quick little gasps. Blood is still streaming down my back. I know in an abstract way that I am dying.

I have nothing left to lose.

With a racing heart, I lurch to my feet.

My head whirls, and lights that shouldn't be there dance before my eyes. As I stand, Atalanta actually jerks back a step before me.

"Enough," comes Cyma's voice.

I turn to her, and see her right hand, holding the long fighting knife, arcing toward me. Crouching, I gather myself and hurl my body against hers, grabbing her knife arm with both hands and pulling her forward. Unbalanced, her weight comes down on top of me, and my legs finally buckle.

Pulling Cyma with me, I collapse to one knee. I hear a click.

Cyma looks down and her eyes widen as she spots the mine under my leg. She breaks free of me easily and scrambles backward. I meet her terrified gaze.

"Don't!" she shrieks.

I move my knee of the trigger and the world explodes.

Weightless.

Soundless.

I feel rather than hear the crunch of my head striking the cornucopia.

My body is numb.

A few flames flicker along my sleeve and then die.

I take one sucking breath and watch the career girls thrash in the water as my vision tunnels away.

* * *

 **. . .**


	47. Storm - While I Cry

**Here's another. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Danny Sparks, 16**

 **District 3 Male**

* * *

Zita's arm swings limply over my shoulder as I bend my head and push through the wet woods at the fastest pace I can manage carrying a hundred pounds of deadweight. My body is soaked and trembling, and every minute I drive myself to a new level of physical and emotional exhaustion. My thoughts swirl at a mile a minute and the rest of me races to catch up.

Yesterday afternoon, where I sat building the bomb while storm clouds gathered, seems a lifetime ago.

The wind and the rain and the dark. Finding the pond with the cornucopia at last, but the careers gone, and in their place the person I have tried hardest to forget.

My guilt. The careers attacking. The urge to atone for my earlier actions, and, last of all, Byron's calm voice ordering me to run and leave him to die.

So I ran. Again. This time, perhaps, flight was the right choice. Byron wanted me — wants, I correct myself, no cannon has fired — to protect Zita. Retreat was the only way to keep her alive.

On my shoulders, she is frighteningly still and back-breakingly heavy. I saw the knife hit her, but I don't know how badly she is wounded. I tell myself that she probably fainted, her mind trying to escape the pain.

How big are Cyma's knives? I shudder, only the hilt was not buried in her flesh . . .

I taste salt on my lips; tears, mixing with the bitter rainwater and sweat coursing down my face.

The wind picks up again, gusting through the treetops and shaking water down from the soaked leaves in big fat drops. A new flurry of rain follows. Around me and above me the treetops sway and creak.

Suddenly I must get out of this forest of death. Every noise is a menace, every shadow a lurking ghoul, wielding my destruction.

There is a great crack and I start wildly and throw myself to the ground, releasing Zita and throwing my hands over my head, expecting to be crushed to death. The sound echoes through the arena, rolling around the forest, and I recognize it as an explosion, not a falling tree. The echoes die. For a moment, the rain and wind stop too, and I hold my breath in this new, fearful silence. One second. Two seconds. Three. Five. Ten. My heart throbs in my chest. Then, quieter than the first explosion, there is the crack of a cannon. The rain starts falling again, but more softly, and the wind gives a sigh instead of a roar.

Just one cannon? From what I learned in the training center, that amount of energy should have generated enough force to blow apart anything within a three-foot radius, and sent anything within nine feet flying. The design was based off the old mines from before the Dark Days. We never learned about their mechanics in school, but the training center had everything, and it was a short leap.

I wonder whose the cannon was. I hope savagely that it was Cyma, remembering again those cruel silver knives. Both career girls use ranged weapons, but Cyma fights well at close quarters too.

Behind me I hear a gasping little sob. Zita!

She's lying just as I dropped her, awkwardly and half on her face. My stomach twists. Coward! I berate myself. I open my mouth to apologize, but I can't speak.

Sorry I dropped you as soon as danger threatened? Sorry I don't have four hands to protect both our heads, and that I made the split-second decision that my own pitiable neck was more worth saving? The words won't come.

Gently, disgusted with myself, I roll her over and try to lift her. As soon as I try to stand, my knees knock so hard I sink down again. I need a minute to collect myself.

We're so exposed, lying in the middle of a deer trail. Hooking my hands under Zita's arms, I haul her, panting with the effort, in amongst the bushes and flop down beside her, chest heaving raggedly.

Turning my head, I look at her face.

Her eyes are open, and as a tear trickles from the corner of her eye and she blinks it away I realize she's conscious.

One hand lies across her stomach, and her fingers twitch spastically, plucking at the edge of her shirt with a rapid, awkward rhythm. Her chest rises and falls slightly; rapidly.

Panic wells up inside me and I resist the urge to bolt and hide myself. What do I do?

I rack my brain, trying to think of everything I know about wounds and doctoring. District 3 has a hospital, but it is only for the wealthy working class and higher. Most of the time, if someone is hurt, one of the older women that's had the most experience or the most kids or something helps. Or one of the young girls. Girls seem to have a knack for that sort of thing.

Ebony helped mom clean me up when I was beaten. I was half-conscious with my eyes swollen shut, but I remember her face, full of remorse since I'd been out late only because I was finding her dog. And anger, anger that peacekeepers would beat up on a kid doing nothing wrong. I can't help but think that if Ebony were here now, she'd know what to do. I try to picture her kneeling in the ferns next to me, hand on my shoulder, encouraging me.

Taking a deep breath, I search through every shred of knowledge that might help me. Images of victors and tributes treating their wounds flit through my mind, but non of them were hurt like this.

Besides, they all did different things! Some of them pulled out the weapon, others waited. One girl won with a piece of wood sticking out of her side for two days. Another boy was shot, and calmly snapped off the arrow, removed the shaft, and treated himself.

Should I pull out the knife?

Gritting my teeth, I sit up and bend over Zita. Her eyes are still open, and blinking up at the sky, but I'm not sure she can see me.

The bushes rustle at my movement and she suddenly turn her face to me, rolling over slightly. For the first time, I get a good look at the knife.

And remember another thing I saw on the Games.

It was years ago and I was little, probably during the 42nd or 43rd. The pair from District 6 was attacked by an athletic boy from Seven, a knife thrower. The District 6 boy fought him off, but took a knife in the stomach. His district partner was young, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Confident in her own knowledge. She said they needed to pull the knife out before they could stop the bleeding. I remember mom going white and her voice taking on a sharp, commanding tone it rarely had.

"Look away, Danny," she ordered, standing up in front of me at the same time. Curious, I crouched low and looked past her. Peering past the hem of her skirt, I heard the boy scream, and saw the camera close in as he came literally un-seamed. Then mother was all over me, blocking it out, covering my ears and telling me it was time for bed. My four year old self forgot the incident by the next day, but some part of my brain retained the image.

I fall back from Zita, shaking, and cover my face with my hands. It's hopeless. Hopeless. Through my fingers, I see her watching me, reading my face. _Don't think about it,_ I tell myself. _Stay calm. Stay strong. Be reassuring._

Zita's voice comes in a whisper: "Danny? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I lie, holding my voice steady with an effort and pressing my hands together to keep them from shaking. "I'm just trying to think of the best way to carry you. We need to get out of the woods."

She doesn't answer, just nods and closes her eyes, biting her lip. I take her arms and lift her onto my back, the same way as before. The hilt of the knife, sticky with blood, brushes against the back of my neck and Zita gasps. I steady her and move forward.

Something to do. That's what I need right now, something concrete that I _can_ fix. Well, we should get to water. That way we can stay hidden and have what we need close by. At the moment, that's what we need to keep this process of not-dying alive. Further on, I refuse to think. Preferably I'll find a stream with some cattails or something. Everyone says you can eat cattails.

With the adrenaline of our flight from the cornucopia wearing off, Zita is heavier than ever and my whole body a cold, solid ache. _Please, let the water be close,_ I beg.

Like an answer to a prayer, I hear the rippling sound of waves on the beach. Sick and trembling with exhaustion, I stagger out of the bushes and lay Zita on the sand just as dawn begins to break.

* * *

 **Short chapter. Since the number of characters has fallen dramatically, I'm leaning toward doing 1 or 2 long POVS for a chapter. Then I don't have to break the flow by switching characters and the whole narrator voice changing and everything. I've got a chapter in the works to give the past events from the career girls' perspectives, then it should be Final 8 interviews, which I have not started writing. The next chapter should be up later this week or early next week, with Final 8 a week or two later.**

 **Question time!**

 _ **What do you think happened at the cornucopia?**_

 ** _Whose cannon fired?_**

 ** _What do you think of Danny and Zita's situation?_**

 ** _What would you do if you were Danny?_**

 ** _How badly is the mood of the story broken when I go a long while without updating? Does it have a major effect on the drama for you?_**

 ** _Who is your current favorite character?_**

 ** _Seeing a victor?_**

 ** _Who do you_ want _to win?_**


	48. Storm - All Fall Down

**Another short one. I'm working on Final Eight interviews, but it could take me a week or two. I've got a horse show tomorrow! Wish me luck, and send up a prayer to St. Joan of Arc or St. Sebastian or somebody that I don't break my neck jumping.**

 **This chapter goes back in time just a little bit. Nobody get confused :)**

* * *

 **Atalanta Bliss, 18**

 **District 1 Female**

* * *

As soon as I wrench my spear from the back of the boy from Ten, everything happens so fast. Instead of collapsing and begging for mercy, he rises to his feet and stands there facing us defiantly, swaying like a punch-drunk, blood pouring from the massive wound between his shoulder blades.

Taunts refuse to affect him. I actually stagger back a step as he gets up.

Cyma too looks startled and a little unsure, but she recovers quickly.

"Enough," she spits, dropping the boys whip and bending to retrieve her knife. She lunges in for the kill.

With something near super-human strength, the Ten boy hurls himself against her, folding under her knife arm and suddenly buckling to the ground. Unbalanced, Cyma falls with him, landing in an awkward, sprawling position half on top of him as he collapses to one knee.

With her body half-covering his, I can't throw my spear. I circle around, ready to drive my javelin into his body and end this ridiculous fight.

Before I can get my angle, Cyma breaks free. She raises her knife to stab her opponent, but her eyes flicker down to his knee, stop, and widen.

"Don't!" she shrieks, suddenly scrambling backward. I have a split-second glimpse of metal before, with a grim smile, the boy meets Cyma's stricken gaze and shifts his knee, shattering the very air.

I feel rather than hear the massive bang, and am lifted into the air, turning over, weightless. I catch a glimpse of Cyma and the boy flying opposite directions before I hit the water with a smack. The air rushes from my lungs. Reflexively, I gulp for breath, and my throat fills with water. Panic floods me and I thrash, tangling in the weeds and muddy bottom. My ears ring.

Then my head breaks the surface and I cough and hack as I find my footing. My head swims and I flounder forward, blundering into the concrete island holding the cornucopia. It takes me several tries to pull myself up the few inches necessary to get out of the water, but I manage it.

Dizzy, ears buzzing, I lie on the ground and try to remember what happened. The boy moved his knee and the next moment I was in the water. Slowly, my breathing steadies enough for me to scent the smoke in the air, and beneath it a sickening odor of burnt flesh and hair. I manage to piece back together what happened. My sense of time and place slowly steadies. Where is Cyma?

My cheek is warm and wet. The wet makes sense. Rain is still drifting down. But it should be cold.

Painfully, I raise my head, feeling a groan leave my mouth as the world dips and swirls. I lick my lips and taste heavy, metallic blood. Looking down, I see that my face rested in a pool of the stuff, already thickened and congealing. Gritty, slippery shards and shreds mix with it: flesh and bone.

Horrified, I scuttle backward on all fours, nearly falling into the water again. My foot crunches down on the remains of a flashlight. I feel it with my hand. Ruined.

Reaching into my pocket I find a gas lighter saved for emergencies. My fingers feel clumsy, but after a few tries I manage to click it on. The small flame is surprisingly bright.

The first thing it illuminates is the source of the blood.

Crumpled against the glinting side of the cornucopia is the what is left of the boy from Ten. His legs are missing at the knee, his chest and arms mangled and shredded, clothing melted into the torn skin. The gray fabric of his shirt is soaked in black patches of blood, and his head with its singed hair lolls against the cornucopia. A thin trickle of red runs from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes are closed. He is surely dead.

There is a strange little knot in my chest. Except for the blood and horrifying wounds, he almost looks asleep. Not at all like the mewling, terrified soon-to-be corpses that stained the water during the bloodbath. Not like that cowardly little victor's sister from Three. I turn away quickly from this boy. This different tribute, who makes me so uncomfortable. This country hick that fought like two careers. He is dead. That's all I wanted to know.

Where was the cannon? I put a hand to my ear and snap my fingers, first on the left, then on the right. Nothing. This could . . . complicate things.

I turn around and leap backward with a gasp, dropping the light. Quickly I am on my hands and knees, scrambling to find it. I reignite the flame, this time prepared to see Cyma standing next to me, where before I hadn't heard her walk up. Only she's not the Cyma she was a few minutes ago.

Her face is a mask of blood, with just two wide, white eyes staring out, blinking constantly.

Her left hand presses her right against her stomach, and both the hand and her waist are soaked in blood. Underneath her fingers I see raw, bloody flesh.

All this takes longer to process than it should, but eventually my brain sluggishly realizes that my ally is badly injured. Another, longer look confirms that her right forearm is shredded and the hand so mangled as to be nearly gone.

I can't recall well, but I think there's an artery in the wrist. I limp back to the body of the boy from Ten and undo his belt, careful to keep the light off his face. The leather is slippery and stained.

I take a knife from the litter of scattered weapons and cut the belt short to maybe six or seven inches. Then I use the point of the knife to punch holes in the new, shortened length. Trainers in One barely taught first aid, but I know enough. I motion for Cyma to hold out her arm. She tries to move it and sways. Then, turning her face away, she releases it and holds it out. I wind the strip of leather as tightly as I can just below the elbow, securing it with the buckle through one of the new holes.

"Can you hear me?" I ask.

Cyma's eyes watch my face and she frowns, shaking her head. Great.

Doing my best at improvising sign language, I mime a paddling motion, trying to tell her we need to retrieve the canoe and return to our hidden supplies. Then I point to the water. Neither of us is in any condition to pursue the boy from Three, and I am almost too tired to care.

Hoping she understood, I slide into the pond, holding my lighter high above my head so it won't go out. It hisses whenever a raindrop passes through the flame.

My chest stings with the cold. Raising my hand to the pain, I feel loose skin and splinters of metal. My right arm stings too. I must have flung it up to cover my face at the last moment. Cyma wasn't so lucky. Her face is probably bristling with shrapnel.

By the light of my little flame I catch sight of the canoe, bobbing in the shallows by the side of the pond. I reach it, and pull myself on board. Again, the motion takes more time and effort than it should.

I paddle clumsily back toward the cornucopia, clicking on an electric lantern we brought with us. I'm glad we made sure that when it came to light sources for this expedition, our back-ups had back-ups. Reaching the island, I find Cyma slumped in a huddled heap. Her whole body is shaking. I try to give her a hand to get into the canoe, but she can barely stand. Sighing, I loop her arm over my shoulders, put an arm around her waist, and half-lead half-carry her to the boat.

Once we have paddled back to the side of the pond, I have to do the same thing all the way back to our camp. She leans on me, fingers clutching tight every few steps like she might fall.

When I find the downed tree around which we hid our supplies, I lie her down against the trunk and set to work building a fire. By this time I am near collapse myself, and the pain in my chest and arm is becoming nauseating. At least my ears seem to be buzzing less, though I don't actually know if that's good or bad.

Sinking down beside the flames, I give vent to a frustrated sigh. It will be a while before the Amazons are fit to fight again.

* * *

 _ **What do you think of the career girls' situation?**_

 _ **How will it play out for them in the short term?**_

 _ **In the long term?**_

 _ **Was I too graphic? I saw my first R-rated movie in theaters (and second ever) a few months ago. It was a war movie (Hacksaw Ridge, an incredible story, even if you don't watch it google Desmond Doss) and I've had an unrestrained imagination ever since.**_

 _ **How are you all doing? (Because I'm feeling magnanimous and happy today. It's finally sunny out). (Though I wrote this chapter a few days before I posted it. Now it's raining. But I still want to know how you all are doing).**_


	49. Chapter 49

**Hi, all. I got into college early and am leaving for a three week backpacking trip in the mountains that kicks off the school year. In other words, it may be a while before I have the opportunity to write again, or to review all your lovely stories. "See" you later, and wish me luck!**


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